LYDIA   H.  SIGOURNE1 


POEMS 


BY 


L\DIA  H.  MGOURNEY 


NEW  YORK: 

LEAVITT   &  ALLEN   BROS 
No.   8   HOWAED    STREET. 


ENTERED  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the 

T-P.T  1841,  by 
JOHN    LOCK  EN, 

in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the 
eastern  dlstnci  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


nun 

1  he  First  Mor»!r?  of  Spring  .       ....  13 

"  Not  Dead,  hii*  ateepeth"         ...  15 

The  Cornm^.,,oJ»      .......  17 

Thoughts  at  f  lie  mneral  of  a  Friend          .       ,  20 

On  a  PictUY_>ui  Penitence       ...  23 

Rome      .                        24 

Departure  ^7  Mrs.  Hannah  More  from  Barley 

Wood  .        .        .  '     .        .       .       .27 

Peace     .                32 

Tomb  of  a  "Voupw  ^riend  at  Mount  Auburn  .       .  33 

Midnight  Mu-!«  35 

Trust  in  Go,,             38 

The  Christian  Mourner  40 

Faith ,       ...  42 

The  Dying  Motner's  Prayer        ....  44 

Consecration  or  a  Church 46 

The  Christian  vn>k.i?  Home  48 

Waiting  up^a  uie  Lord    ......  50 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Death-Bed  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Payson    ...  53 

Mission  Hymn 54 

On  Meeting  Several  Former  Pupils  at  the  Com 
munion  Table 56 

The  Lost  Sister 58 

Mistaken  Grief 60 

Departure  of  Missionaries  for  Ceylon   ...  62 

Cry  of  the'Corannas 64 

Gift  of  a  Bible 66 

Home  Missions 68 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend €9 

The  Journey  with  the  Dead        .  71 
Prisoners'  Evening  Hymn.     Written  "or  the 

Females  in  the  Connecticut  State  Piison  .  74 

The  Huguenot  Pastor 76 

"This  is  not  your  Rest" 79 

The  Second  Birth-day 81 

Death  of  a  Clergyman 8" 

"  Depart,  Christian  Soul" & 

The  Forest  Tribes    .                       ....  87 
Deuih  of  a  Distinguished  M        .       .                .89 

Parting  Hymn  of  Missionaries  .o  Burmah    .        .  92 

Babe  Bereaved  of  its  Mother       ....  94 
"  Whither  shall  I  flee  from  Thy  Presence  7"        .96 

The  Indian's  Welcome  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  .  98 

Birth-day  of  the  First-born 100 

Ihe  Half-century  Senaon                         .       .  101 


CONTENTS.  UC 

IAOB 

Death  of  a  Beautiful  Boy lOi 

Foreign  Missions .106 

Evening  Thoughts 10T 

The  African  Mother  at  her  Daughter's  Grave  .     109 

To  Mourning  Parents 112 

Sailor's  Funeral • 

Christian  Hope         .        .        .        .        '•       •          116 
Lady  Jane  Grey.    On  seeing  a  Picture  repre 
senting  her  engafejd  in  the  study  of  Plato      118 
Death  of  a  Missionary  in  Afiica     .        .        .       .122 

Dirge 123 

Vae  Vobis 125 

Boy's  Last  Bequest 127 

"Hinder  them  not" W& 

Moravian  Missions  to  Greenland        .       .       .      131 

Paul  at  Athens 13S 

The  Muffled  Knocker 136 

Changes 138 

On  Reading  the  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Judson  ~.       .      140 
Tribute  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Cornelius  .        .  .143' 

Charity  Hymn 147 

Picture  of  a  Sleeping  Infant  watched  by  a  Dog   .  149' 
On  Returning  from  Church         .        .       .       .151 

The  Baptism Jsa 

Death  of  the  Wife  of  a  Clergyman     .       ,       .156' 
Christmas  Hymn      ...  ...  159 

Death  of  the  RJV,  Gordon  Hall  .  1W 


I  CONTENTS. 

PAGES 

/  Tomb  of  Absalom 163 

Death  of  a  Young  Lady  at  the  Retreat  foi\the 

Insane .165 

The  Tower  at  Montevideo  .  .  .  .  ,  167 
Birth-day  Verses  to  a  Little  Girl  .  .  .169 

Farewell  to  the  Aged 17« 

"  Thy  Will  be  Done" :73 

Death  of  Mrs.  H.  W.  Winslow,  Missionary  in 

Ceylon 174 

"I  will  Arise  and  go  unto  my  Father"  .  .  176 
Voice  from  the  Grave  cf  a  Sunday-school 

Teacher 173 

On  the  Death  of  a  Member  of  the  Infant  School  179 
Death  of  a  Young  Musician  ....  181 
The  South-American  Statues  «...  ]83 

Agriculture j§7 

Funeral  of  a  Physician  ....  .159 

Nature's  Royalty .  ....  193 

Sentiment  in  a  Sermon 194 

The  Power  of  Friendship.  An  Ancient  Legend 

ofFranconia 195 

The  Garden 202 


Vice 


206 


The  Swedish  Lovers 207 

To  the  Moon 218 

To  the  Evening  Primrose 221 

Imitation  of  Pal  ",s  of  the  Prophet  Amos  223 


COHTEXT8. 


Death  of  the  Print  pal  of  a  Retreat  for  tha 

Insane     ........  230 

Legh  Richmond  among  the  Ruins  of  lona         .     233 
Marie  of  Wurtemburg      ......  235 

Zama      .........      238 

Pilgrim  Fathers        .......  241 

"We&pnot"         ......        .243 

On  the  Death  of  a  Former  Papil    :        .       .       .245 
The  Sleeping  Infant     .....  248 

The  Orphan's  Trust         ......  249 

The  Ordination     .......     251 

V      The  Host  of  Gideon  .......  25* 

farewell        i  .      236 


POEMS 

BY 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY. 


THE   FIRST  MORNING   OF   SPRIN3 


BREAK  from  your  chains,  ye  lingering  streams 
Rise,  blossoms,  from  your  wintry  dreams ; 
Drear  fields,  your  robes  of  verdure  take  ; 
Birds,  from  your  trance  of  silence  wake  ; 
Glad  trees,  resume  your  leafy  crown ; 
Shrubs,  o'er  the  mirror-brooks  bend  down; 
Bland  zephyrs,  wheresoe'er  ye  stray, 
The  Sprirg  doth  call  you, — come  away. 
Thou  too,  my  soul,  with  quicken'd  force 
Dursue  thy  brief,  thy  measur'd  course; 


i4  THE  FIRST  MORNING   OF   SPRING. 

With  grateful  zeal  each  power  employ  r 
Catch  vigour  from  Creation's  joy  ; 
And  deeply  on  thy  shortening  span 
Stamp  love  to  God  and  love  to  man. 

But  Spring,  with  tardy  step,  appears. 

Chill  is  her  eye,  and  moist  with  tears ; 

Still  are  the  founts  in  fetters  bound, — 

The  flower-germs  shrink  within  the  ground. 

Where  are  the  warblers  of  the  sky  ? 

I  ask, — and  angry  blasts  reply. 

It  is  not  thus  in  heavenly  bowers  : — 

Nor  ice-bound  rill,  nor  drooping  flowers, 

Nor  silent  harp,  nor  folded  wing, 

Invade  that  everlasting  Spring 

Toward  which  we  look  with  wishful  tear* 

While  pilgrims  in  this  wintry  sphere. 


"NOT  DEAD,  BUT  SLEEPETH." 


Not  dead  I     A  marble  seal  is  prest, 

Where  her  bright  glance  did  part, 
A  weight  is  on  the  pulseless  breast, 

And  ice  around  the  heart ; 
No  more  she  wakes  with  greeting  smile, 

Gay  voice,  and  buoyant  tread, 
Rut  yet  ye  calmly  say  the  while, 

tike  sleeps,  she  is  not  dead. 

If  thou  dost  mourn  for  ashes  cold, — 

A  voice  from  heaven  replied, 
*'  Then  be  thine  anguish  uncontroll'd, 

Thy  tears  a  heathen  tide  ; 
Thine  idol  was  that  vestment  fair 

Which  wraps  the  spirit  free, 
Earth,  air,  and  water,  claim  their  share, 

Say  I  which  shall  comfort  thee  ? 

But  the  strong  mind  whose  heaven-born  thought 
No  earthly  chain  could  bind. 


,6  "NOT  DEAD    BUT  SLEEPETH/ 

The  holy  heart  divinely  fraught 

With  love  to  all  mankind, 
The  humble  soul  whose  early  trturt 

Was  with  its  God  on  high, 
These  were  thy  sister,  who  in  du»i 

May  sleep,  but  cannot  <&*,'* 


17 


THE    COMMUNION. 


*«  Master !  it  is  good  to  be  here." 

MARK,  i.x  .  5 


TITEY  knelt  them  side  by  side  ;  the  hoary  man 
Whose  memory  was  an  age,  and  she  whose 

cheek 
Gleam'd  like  that  velvet  which  the  young  moss 

rose 
Puts  blushing  forth    from  its  scarce    sever'd 

sheath. 
There  was   the  sage, — wnose   eye   of  sc-ience 

spans 

The  comet  in  his  path  of  fire, — and  she 
Whose  household  duty  was  her  sole  delight 
And  highest  study.     On  the  chancel  clasp'd, 
In  meek  devotion,  were  those  bounteous  hands 
Which  pour  forth  charities,  unask'd,  untir'd, — 
And  his  which  roughly  win  the  scanty  bread 


18  THE   COMMUNION. 

For  his  young  children.  There  tne  r»»in  of  m/ght 
On  bended  knee,  fast  by  his  ser-an.,  a  side, 
Sought   the    same   Master, — Wainren    in   one 

faith. 
And  fellow-pilgrims. 

See  yon  wr'.nlrled  brow, 
Where  care  and  grief  for  manv  c.  year  have 

trac'd 

Alternate  furrows, — bow'd  so  neai  tuose  lips, 
Which  but  the  honey  and  the  r^Vy  of  love 
Have  nourish' d.     And,  for  each,  etp-ial  health 
Descendeth  here. 

Look !  look !  'as  v^n  deep  veil 
Is  swept  aside,  what  an  o'erwhe'nimg  page 
Disease  hath  written  with  its  p'_\  or  pain. 
Ah,  suffering  sister,  thou  art  hastily  vhere 
No  treacherous  hectic  plants  is  ^--neral  rose : 
Drink  thou  the  wine-cup  of  thy  ri?e"  Lord, 
And  it  shall  nerve  thee  for  thy  tr^soine  path 
Through  the  dark  valley  of  th^  ^uade  of  death. 

— 'Tis  o'er.     A  holy  silence  re^aa  around. 
The  organ  slumbers.    The  sweet,  <"°<5mn  voice 
Of  him  who  dealt  the  soul  its  b~--"°nly  food 
Turns  inward,  like  a  wearied  sentinel. 
Pillowing  on  thought  profound. 

's.  ut:n  every  head 

Bends  low  in  parting  worship, — m\*^..  and  deep 
The  whisper  of  the  soul.    And  ,7ho  mav  tell 


THE  COMMTJJIOIf.  19 

fn  that  brief,  silent  space,  how  many  a  hope 
[a  born  that  hath  a  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

•~-So  hear  us,  Father !  in  our  voiceless  prayer, 
That  at  thy  better  banquet  all  may  meet, 
And  take  the  cup  of  bliss,  and  thirst  no  mora 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  FUNZLrtAL  OF 
A  FRIEJSD. 


THAT  solemn  knell,  whose  mournful  call 
Strikes  on  the  heart,  1  heard ; 

I  saw  the  sable  pall 
Covering  the  form  revered. 
And,  lo!  his  fathers'  race,  the  ancient  and 

the  blest, 
Unlock  the  dim  sepulchral  halls,  where  silently 

they  rest, 

And  to  the  unsaluting  tomb, 
Curtained  round  with  rayless  gloom, 
~~~tle  entereth  in,  a  wearied  guest. . 

To  his  bereaved  abode,  the  fire-side  chair 

The  holy,  household  prayer, 
Affection's  watchful  'zeal,  his  life  that  blest, 

The  tuneful  lips  that  soothed  his  pain,  _ 
With  the  dear  name  of  "Father"    thrilling 

through  his  breast, 
He  cometh  not  again. 


THOUGHTS  AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  FK1END.     21 

Flowers  HI  his  home  bloom  fair. 

The  evening  taper  sparkles  clear, 
The  intellectual  banquet  waiteth  there, 
Which  his  heart  held  so  dear. 

The  tenderness  and  grace 
That  make  religion  beautiful  still  spread 
Their  sainted  wings  to  guard  the  place- 
Alluring  friendship's  frequent  tread. 
Still  seeks  the  stranger's  foot  that  hospitable 

door, 

But  hey  the  husband  and  the  sire,   returneth 
never  mote. 

His  was  the  upright  deed, 
His  the  unswerving  course, 
'Mid  every  thwarting  current's  force, 
Unchanged  by  venal  aim,  or  flattery's  hollow 

reed : 

The  holy  truth  walked  ever  by  his  side, 
And  in  his  bosom  dwelt,  companion,  judge,  and 
guide. 

But  when  disease  revealed 

To  his  unclouded  eye 
The  stern  destroyer  standing  nigh, 

Where  turned  he  for  a  shield  ? 
Wrapt  he  the  robe  of  stainless  rectitude 
Around  his  breast  to  meet  cold  Jordan's  flood* 

Grasped  he  the  staff  of  pride 
ITis  steps  through  death's  dark  vale  to  guide? 


22    THOUGHTS  AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  A  FRIEHD. 

Ah  no  !  self-righteousness  he  cast  aside. 
Clasping,  with  firm  and  fearless  faith,  the  cross 
of  Him  who  died. 

Serene, — serene, — 
lie  press'd  the  crumbling  verge  of  this  terrestrial 

scene, 
Breath' d  soft  in  childlike  frust 

The  parting  groan, — 

Gave  back  to  dust  its  dust  — 

To  Heaven,  its  owe. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  PENITENCE. 


YES  !  loo-'  TO  Heaven.     Earth  scorns  to  lend 
Refuge,  or  -«y  thy  steps  to  guide ; 

Bids  pity  Mum  suspicion  blend, 
And  s.uauer  check  compassion's  tide. 

We  will*—'  ask,  what  thorn  hath  found 
Admittance  *3  thy  bosom  fair. — 

If  love  ha*^  utjalt  a  traitor's  wound, 
Or  hopiiess  folly  woke  despair : — 

We  only  jdy,  that  sinless  clime, 
To  whicp  ie :  aised  thy  streaming  eye, 

Hath  pardr*1  ior  ih'e  deepest  crime, 
Thoug.1  en-ing  man  that  boon  deny  :— 

We  only  day,  the  prayerful  breast, 
The  gushing  tear  of  contrite  pain, 

Have  po;*^  to  ope  that  portal  blest, 
Where  vai^*ing  pride  must  toil  in  vwn. 


ROME. 


'Tis  sunset  on  the  Palatine.     A  flood 
Of  living  glory  wraps  the  Sabine  hills, 
And  o'er  the  rough  and  serrate  Appenines 
Floats  like  a  burning  mantle.     Purple  mists 
Rise  faintly  o'er  the  grey  and  ivied  tombs 
Of  the  Campagna,  as  sad  memory  steals 
Forth  from  the  twilight  of  the  heart,  to  hold 
Its  mournful  vigil  o'er  affection's  dust. 
Was  that  thy  camp,  old  Romulus,  where  creeps 
The  clinging  vine-flower  round  yon  fallen  fanes 
And  mouldering  columns  ? 

Lo  !  thy  clay-built  huts, 

And  band  of  malcontents,  with  barbarous  port, 
Up  from  the  sea  of  buried  ages  rise, 
Darkening  the  scene.      Methinks  I  see   thee 

stand, 
Thou  wolf-nursed  monarch,    o'er  the   human 

herd 

Supreme  in  savageness,  yet  strong  to  plant 
Barrier  and  bulwark,    whence  should  burst  a 

might 
And  majesty  by  thy  untutored  soul 


ROME.  25 

Unmeasured,  unconceived.     As  little  dreams 
The  careless  boy,  who  to  the  teeming  earth 
Casts  the  light  acorn,  of  the  forest's  pomp, 
Which,  springing  from  that  noteless  germ,  shall 

rear 

Its  banner  to  the  skies,  when  he  must  sleep 
A  noteless  atom. 

Hark  !  the  owlet' s  cry, 
That,  like  a  muttering  sybil,  makes  her  cell 
Mid  Nero's   house   of   gold,    with    clustering 

bats, 

And  gliding  lizards.     Tells  she  not  to  man, 
In  the  hoarse  plaint  of  that  discordant  shriek, 
The  end  of  earthly  glory  ? 

With  mad  haste 

No  more  the  chariot  round  the  stadium  flies ; 
Nor  toil  the  rivals  in  the  painful  race 
To  the  far  goal ;  nor  from  yon  broken  arch 
Comes  forth  the  victor,  with  flushed  brow,  to 

claim 
The   hard-earned  garland.      All  have    pass'd 

away, 

Save  the  dead  ruins,  and  the  living  robe 
That  nature  wraps  around  them.    Anxious  fear, 
High-swollen  expectancy,  intense  despair, 
And  wild  exulting  triumph,  here  have  reigned 
And  perished  all. 


S3  ROME. 

'Twere  well  could  we  forgen 
How  oft  the  gladiator's  blood  hath  stained 
Yon  grass-grown   pavement,   while  imperial 

Rome 
With  all  her  fairest,  brightest  brows,  looked 

down 

On  the  stern  courage  of  the  wounded  wretch 
Grappling  with  mortal  agony.     The  sigh 
Or  tone  of  tender  pity  were  to  him 
A  dialect  unknown,  o'er  whose  dim  eye 
The  distant  vision  of  his  cabin  rude, 
With  all  its  echoing  voices,  all  the  rush 
Of  its  cool,  flowing  waters,  brought  a  pang 
To  which  keen  death  was  slight. 

But  now  the  scf.ne 

Once  proudly  peopled  with  the  gods  of  earth 
Spreads  unempurpled,  unimpassion'd  forth, 
While,  curtain'd  with  her  ancient  glory,— Ron* 
Slumbereth,  like  one  o'er  wearied. 


37 


I 
DEPARTURE  OF 

MRS.    HANNAH   MORE 
FROM  BARLEY  WOOD. 


IT  was  a  lovely  scene, 
That  cottage  'mid  the  trees, 
And  peerless  England's  shaven  green, 

Peep'd,  their  interstices  between, 
While  in  each  sweet  recess,  and  grotto  wild, 
Nature  convers'd  with  art,  or  on  her  laboun 
smil'd. 


It  seem'd  a  parting  hour, 
And  she  whose  hand  had  made 
That  spot  so  beautiful  with  woven  shade 
And  aromatic  shrub  and  flower, 
Turn'd  her  from  those  haunts  away, 
Tho'  spring  relum'd  each  charm,  and   fondly 
woo'd  her  stay. 


•1        DErAliTTJKE   OF   MRS.    IIANNiH   MORE. 

Yf.d   mansion    teems   with  legends    fo?  ths 

heart : 

T  ^e*e  her  lov'd  sisters  circled  round  hersi^xj, 
rio  share  in  all  her  toils  a  part, 
There,  too,  with  gentle  sigh 
£>.ch  laid  her  down  to  die : 
Methinks  their  beckoning  phantoms  ~lid'* 
Twining  with  tenderest  ties 

Of  hoarded  memories, 
/reen  bower,  and  quiet  walk, and  vir*  wcath'd 

spot  : 

Hark  !  v^er'  the  cypress  waves 
Above  ineir  p^cefal  graves, 
>»eems  not  <<or.<;  ecno  on  the  gale  to  rise  ? 
"0,  s'.ater,  leave  us  not !" 

Her  lingering  footstep  stays 
Upon  that  threshold  stone, 
And  o'er  the  pictur'd  wall,  her  farewell  gaze 
Rests  on  the  portraits,  one  by  one, 
Of  treasur'd  friends,  before  her  gone 
To  that,  bright  world  of  bliss  where  partings  are 
unknown. 

The  wintry  snows 
That  fourscore  years  disclose, 
/Vhen  slow  to  life's  last  verge,  Time's  lonely 

chariot  goes, 
Are  on  her  temples ;  and  her  features  meek 


"..iFiRTUKiS    OF   MRS.    IIAINNAH   MORt.         29 

^ab''ued  and  silent  sorrow  speak  ; 
"V   still  her  arm  in  cheerful  trust  doth  lean 
C  *i  1    thful  friendship's  prop, — that  changeless 
evergreen. 

Like  Eve,  from  Paradise,  bhe  goes, 
Yet  not  by  guilt  involv'd  in  woes, 

Nor  driven  by  angel  bands, — • 
The  flaming  sword  is  planted  at  he  *  gate 

By  menial  hands: 
yes,  those  who  at  her  table  fed 
Despise  the  giver  of  their  daily  bread 
And  from  ingratitude  and  hate 
The  wounded  patron  fled. 


Think  not  the  pang  was  slight 
That  thus  within  her  uncomplaining  breast 

She  cover'd  from  the  light : 
Tho'  knowledge  o'er  her  mind  had  pour'd 

The  full,  imperishable  hoard, 
Tho'  virtue,  such  as  dwells  among  the  blest, 
Jame  nightly,  on  reflection's  wing,  to  soothe  hef 

soul  to  rest, 
Tho'  Fame  to  farthest  earth  her  name  had 

borne, 
These  brought  no  shield  against  the  envious 

thorn : 

Deem  not  the  envenom'd  dart 
Invulnerable  ound  her  'hrilling  woman's  heart. 


50        DEPARTURE   OF   MRS.    HANNAH  MORE. 

Man's  Jiome  is  even/where.     On  ocean's  flood, 
Where  the  strong  ship  with  storm-defying  tethel 
Doth  link  in  stormy  brotherhood 
Earth's  utmost  zones  together, 
Where'er  the  red  gold  glows,  the  spice-treea 

wave, 

Where  the  rich  diamond  ripens,  'mid  the  flame 
Of  vertic  suns  that  ope  the  stranger's  grave, 
He,  with  bronz'd  cheek   and  daring  step 

doth  rove ; 

He  with  short  pang  and  slight 
Doth  turn  him  from  the  chequer' d  light 
Of  the  fair  moon  thro'  his  own  forests  dancing, 
Where  music,  joy,  and  love, 

Were  his  >  oung  hours  entrancing ; 
And  where  ambition's  thunder-claim 

Points  out  his  lot, 
Or  fitful  wealth  allures  to  roam, 
There,  doth  he  make  his  home, 
Repining  not. 

It  is  not  thus  with  Woman.     The  far  halla, 

Though  ruinous  and  lone, 
Where  first  her  pleased  ear  drank  a  nursing 

mother's  tone, — 
The  home  with  humble  walls, 
Where  breath'd  a  parent's  prayer  around  hai 

bed,— 

The  valley,  where  with  playmates  true, 
She  cuil'd  the  strawberry,  bright  with  dew,— 


DEPARTURE   OF  MRS.    HANNAH   MORE.        3 

The  bower,  where  Love  her  timid  footstep! 

led,— 
The  hearth-stone  where  her  children  grew, — 

The  damp  soil  where  she  cast 
The  flower-seeds  of  her  hope,  and  saw  them 

bide  the  blast. — 

Affection,  with  unfading  tint  recalls, 
Lingering  round  the  ivied  walls, 
Where  every  rose  hath  in  its  cup  a  bee, 

Making  fresh  honey  of  remember' d  things, 
Each  rose  without  a  thurn,  each  bee  bereft  «£ 
•tiDfi. 


PEACE. 


*  Peace  I  leave  with  you."— JOH  »,  xiv.,91 


"Peace,'*  was  the  song  the  angels  sang, 

When  Jesus  sought  this  vale  of  tears, 
And  sweet  that  heavenly  prelude  rang, 

To  calm  the  wondering  shepherds'  fears  :-».* 
'  War,"  is  the  word  that  man  hath  spoke, 

Convuls'd  by  passions  dark  and  dread, 
And  vengeance  bound  a  lawless  yoke 

Even  where  the  Gospel's  banner  spread 

"  Peace"  was  the  prayer  the  Saviour  breathed 

When  from  our  world  his  steps  withdrew, 
The  gift  he  to  his  friends  bequeathed 

With  Calvary  and  the  cross  in  view  : — 
And  ye  whose  souls  have  felt  his  love, 

Guard  day  and  night  this  rich  bequest, 
The  watch-word  of  the  host  above, 

The  passport  to  their  realm  of  rest. 


TOMB  OF  A  YOUNG  FRIEND  AT 
MOUNT  AUBURN. 


I  DO  remember  thee. 

There  was  a  strain 

Of  thrilling  music,  a  soft  breath  of  flowers 
Telling  of  summer  to  a  festive  throng, 
That  fill'd  the  lighted  halls.     And  the  sweet 

smile 

That  spoke  their  welcome,  the  high  warbled  lay 
Swelling  with  rapture  through  a  parent's  heart, 
Were  thine. 

Time  wav'd  his  noiseless  wand  awhile, 
And  in  thy  cherish'd  home  once  more  I  stood, 
Amid  those  twin'd  and  cluster' d  sympathies 
Where  the  rich  blessings  of  thy  heart  sprang 

forth, 
Like  tne  moss  rose.    Where  was  the  voice  of 

song 

Pouring  out  glad  and  glorious  melody  ? — 
But  when  I  ask'd  for  thee,  they  took  me  where 
A  hallow'd  mountain  wrapt  its  verdant  head 
In  changeful  drapery  of  woods,  and  flowers* 
3 


34  TOMB   OP  A  TZOaNG  FR1EM. 

And  silver  streams,  and  where  thou  erst  didst 

love, 

Musing  to  walk,  and  lend  a  serious  ear 
To  the  wild  melody  of  birds  that  hung 
Their  unharm'd  dwellings  'mid  its  woven 

bowers. 
Yet  here   and   there,    involv'd   in   curtaining 

shades 

Uprose  those  sculptur'd  monuments  that  bear 
The  ponderous  warnings  of  eternity. 

So,  thou  hast  pass'd  the  unreturning  gate, 
Where  dust  with  dust  doth  linger,  and  gone 

down 

In  all  the  beauty  of  thy  blooming  years 
To  this  most  sacred  city  of  the  dead. 
The  granite  obelisk  and  the  pale  flower 
Reveal  thy  couch.    Fit  emblems  of  the  frail 
And  the  immortal. 

But  that  bitter  grief 
Which  holds  stern  vigil  o'er  the  mouldering 

clay, 

Keeping  long  night-watch  with  its  sullen  lamp 
Had  fled  thy  tomb,  aim  xaith  did  lift  its  eye 
Full  of  sweet  tears  :  for  when  warm  tear-dropa 

gush 

From  the  pure  memories  of  a  love  that  wroughl 
For  others  happiness,  and  rose  to  take 
Its  own  full  share  of  happiness  above, 
Are  they  not  sweet? 


MIDNIGHT  MUSIC.' 


WHAT  maketh  music,  when  the  bird 

Doth  hush  its  merry  lay  ? 
And  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  flowers 

Hath  sig::vd  iiself  away  ? 
What  maketh  music  when  the  fros* 

Enchains  the  murmuring  rill, 
And  every  song  that  summer  woke 

In  winter's  trance  is  still  ? 


*"The  Rev.  Mr.  George  Herbert,  in  one  of  his 
ivalks  to  Salisbury  to  join  a  musical  society,  saw  a 
poor  "man,  with  a  poorer  horse,  which  had  fallen 
under  its  load.  Putting  oft*  his  canonical  coat,  be 
helped  the  poor  man  to  unload,  and  raise  the  horse, 
and  afterwards  to  load  him  again.  The  poor  man 
bl  jssed  him  for  it,  and  he  blessed  the  poor  man.  And 
BO  like  was  he  to  the  good  Samaritan,  that  he  gave 
him  money  to  refresh  both  himself  and  his  horse,  ad 
monishing  him  also,  'if  he  loved  himself,  to  be  mer 
ciful  to  his  beast.'  Then,  coming  to  his  musical 
friends  at  Salisbu'-^,  they  began  to  wonder  that  Mr. 
George  Herbert,  who  used  to  be  always  so  trim  and 
neat,  shield  come  into  that  company  so  soiled  and 


36  MIDNIGHT  MUSIC. 

What  rnaketh  music  when  the  winds 

In  strong  encounter  rise, 
When  ocean  strikes  his  thunder-gong, 

And  the  rent  cloud  replies  ? 
While  no  adventurous  planet  dares 

The  midnight  arch  to  deck, 
And,  in  its  startled  dream,  the  babe 

Doth  clasp  its  mother's  neck  ? 

And  when  the  fiercer  storms  cf  fate 

\Vild  o'er  the  pilgrim  sweep, 
And  earthquake-voices  claim  the  hopes 

He  treasur'd  long  and  deep, 
When  loud  the  threatening  passions  roar 

Like  lions  in  their  den, 
And  vengeful  tempests  lash  the  shore, 

What  maketh  music  then? 

discomposed.  Yet,  when  he  told  them  the  reason, 
one  of  them  said  that  he  had  'disparaged  himself  by 
so  mean  an  employment.'  But  his  answer  was  that 
the  thought  of  what  he  had  done,  would  prove  musie 
to  him  at  midnight^  and  that  the  omission  of  it  would 
have  made  discord  in  his  conscience,  whenever  J>» 
should  pass  that  place.  'For  if,'  said  he,  'I  am 
bound  to  pray  for  all  that  are  in  distress,  I  am  surely 
bnunH,  so  far  as  is  in  my  power,  to  practise  what  I 
fc»ray  for.  And  though  I  do  not  wish  for  the  "ke  oc 
casion  every  day,  yet  would  I  not  willingly  piss  one 
day  of  my  life  without  comforting  a  sad  soul,  or 
showing  mercy,  and  I  praise  God  for  this  opportunity. 
So  now  let  us  tune  our  instruments  '  " 


MIDNIGHT  MT7SIC. 

The  deed  to  humble  virtue  born. 

Which  nursing  memory  tauffht 
To  shun  a  boastful  world's  applause. 

And  love  the  lowly  thought, 
This  builds  a  cell  within  the  heart, 

Amid  the  blasts  ot  care 
And  tuning  high  its  heaven-struck  harp, 

Makes  miJnight  music  there. 


TRUST  IN  GOD. 


"And  David  said,  Let  me  now  fall  into  the  hand  of 
the  Lord,  for  his  mercies  are  great, — and  let  me  not 
fell  into  the  hand  of  man."— 2  SAM,  xxiv.,  14. 


MAN  hath  a  voice  severe, 
His  neighbour's  fault  to  blame, 

A  wakeful  eye,  a  listening  ear 
To  note  his  brother's  shame. 

He,  with  suspicious  glance 

The  curtain' d  breast  doth  read. 

And  raise  the  accusing  balance  high-, 
To  weigh"  the  doubtful  deed. 

Oh  Thou,  whose  piercing  thought 
Doth  note  each  secret  path, 

For  mercy  to  Thy  throne,  we  fly, 
From  man's  condemning  wrath. 

Thou,  who  dost  dimness  mark 
In  Heaven's  resplendent  way. 


TRUST  TW  GOD.  Sf 

And  folly  in  that  angel  host 
Who  serve  thee  night  and  day. 

How  fearless  should  our  trust 

In  thy  compassion  be, 
When  from  our  brother  of  the  duM 

Wa  dare  appeal  to  Tiw». 


40 


THE  CHRISTIAN  MOURNER. 


I  SA\T  a  dark  procession  slowly  wind 
"Mid  funeral  shades,  and  a  lone  mourner  stand 
Fast  by  the  yawning  of  the  pit  that  whelm'd 
His  bosom's  idol. 

Then  the  sable  scene 
Faded  away,  and  to  his  alter' d  home 
Sad  fancy  follow'd  him,  and  saw  him  fold 
His  one,  lone  babe,  in  agoniz'd  embrace, 
And  kiss  the  brow  of  trusting  innocence, 
That  in  its  blessed  ignorance  wail'd  not 
A  mother  lost.      Yet   she    who  would  ha*e 

watch 'd 

Each  germ  of  intellect,  each  bud  of  truth, 
Each  fair  unfolding  of  the  fruit  of  Heaven, 
With  thrilling  joy,  was  like  the  marble  cold. 

—There  were  the  flowers  she  planted,  blooming 

fair, 

As  if  in  mockery, — there  the  varied  stores 
That  in  the  beauty  of  their  order  charm'd 
At  once  the  tasteful  and  the  studious  hour, 
Pictures,  and  tinted  shells,  and.  treasur'd  tomes; 


THE   CHRISTIAN   MOURNER.  41 

But  the  presiding  mind,  the  cheerful  voice, 
The  greeting  glance,  the  spirit-stirring  smile, 
Fled,  fled  for  ever. 

And  he  knoweth  all ! 
Hath  felt  it  all,  deep  in  his  tortur'd  soul, 
Till  reason  and  philosophy  grew  faint, 
Beneath  a  grief  like  his.     Whence  hath  he  then 
The  power  to  comfort  others,  and  to  speak 
Thus  of  the  resurrection  ? 

He  hath  found 

That  hope  which  is  an  anchor  to  the  soul, 
And  with  a  martyr-courage  holds  him  up 
To  bear  the  will  of  God. 

Say,  ye  who  tempt 

The  sea  of  life,  by  summer-gales  irapell'd, 
Have  ye  this  anchor  ?     Sure  a  time  will  come 
For  storms  to  try  you,  and  strong  blasts  to  rend 
Your  painted  sails,  and   shred  your  gold-like 

chaff 

O'er  the  wild  wave ;  and  what  a  wreck  is  man 
If  sorrow  fini  him  unsustaiu'd  by  God. 


43 


FAITH. 


WRAPT  in  the  robe  of  Faith, 
Come  to  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  seal  thy  deathless  vows  to  Him 
Who  makes  thy  life  his  care. 

Doth  he  thy  sunny  skies 

O'ercloud  with  tempest  gloom  t 
Or  take  the  idol  of  thy  breast, 

And  hide  it  in  the  tomb  ? 

Or  bid  thy  treasur'd  joys 

In  hopeless  ruin  lie  ? 
Search  not  his  reasons, — wait  his  will  { 

The  record  is  on  high. 

For  should  he  strip  thy  heart 

Of  all  it  boasts  on  earth, 
And  set  thee  naked  and  alone, 

As  at  thy  day  of  birth, 

He  cannot  do  thee  wrong, 
Those  gifts  were  his  at  first,— 


KIXR. 

Draw  nearer  to  his  changeless  thronft, 
Bow  deeper  in  the  dust. 

Calls  he  thy  parting  soul 
Unbodied  from  the  throng  ? 

Cling  closer  to  thy  Saviour's  (row 
And  raise  the  victor  song, 


THE  DYING  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 


I  HEARD  the  voice  of  prayer— a  mother^i 

prayer — 

A  dying  mother  for  her  only  son. 
Young  was  his  brow,  and  fair. 
Her  hand  was  o«  his  head, 
Her  words  of  love  were  said, 
Her  work  was  done. 

And  there  were  other  voices  near  her  bed- 
Sweet,  bird-like  voices — for  their  mother  dear 

Asking,  with  mournful  tear. 
Ah,  by  whose  hand  shall  those  sad  tears  be 

dried, 

When  one  brief  hour  is  fled, 
And  hers  shall  pulseless  rest,  low  with  the  silent 
dead? 

Yes,  there  was  death's  dark  valley,  drear  and 
cold! 

And  the  hoarse  dash  of  an  o'erwhelming  wave 
Alone  she  treads  :  is  there  no  earthly  hold, 

No  friend — no  helper-   no  strong  arm  to  save  1 


THE  DYING    MCr3ER's   PRATER.  45 

Down  to  the  fearful  grave, 
In  the  firm  courage  of  a  faLh  serene, 

Alone  she  press' d — 
And  as  she  drew  the  chord 
That  bound  her  to  her  Lord 

More  closely  round  her  breast, 
The  white  wing  of  the  waiting  angel  spread 
More  palpably,  and  earth's  bright  things  grew 

pale. 

Even  fond  affection's  wail 
Beemed  like  the  tar-oft'  sigh  of  spring's  forgotten 
gale. 

And  so  the  mother's  prayer, 
So  often  breathed  above, 

In  agonizing  love, 

Rose  high  in  praise  of  God's  protecting  care. 
Meek  on  his'  arm  her  infant  charge  she  laid, 
And  with  a  trusting  eye, 
Of  Christian  constancy, 
Confiding  in  her  blest  Redeemer's  aid, 

She  taught  the  weeping  band, 
.    Who  round  her  couch  of  pain  did  stand, 

How  a  weak  woman's  hand, 
Fettered  with  sorrow  and  with  sin, 
Might  from  the  king  of  terrors  win 
The  victory. 


CONSECRATION  OF  A  CHURCH. 


LIFT  up  your  heads,  ye  hallowed  gates,  and 

give 
The  King  of  Glory  room." 

And  then  a  strain 

Of  solemn  trembling  melody  inquired, 
"  Who  is  the  King  of  Glory." 

But  a  sound 

Brake  from  the  echoing  temple,  like  the  rush 
Of  many  waters,  blent  with  organ's  breath, 
And  the  soul's  harp,  and  the  uplifted  voice 
Of  prelate,  and  oi  people,  and  of  priest, 
Responding  joyously — "  The  Lord  of  Hosts, 
He  is  the  King  of  Glory." 

Enter  in 

To  this  his  new  abode,  and  with  glad  heart 
Kneel  low  before  his  footstool.     Supplicate 
That  favouring  presence  which  doth  condescend, 
From  the  pavilion  of  high  heaven  to  beam 
On  earthly  temples,  and  in  contrite  souls. 

Here  fade  all  vain  distinctions  that  the  pride 
Of  man  can  arrogate.     This  house  of  prayer 


CONSECRATION  OF   A    CHZJRCH.  47 

Doth  teach  that  all  are  sinners— all  have  strayed 
Like  erring  sheep.     The  princely,  or  the  poor, 
The  bright  or  ebon  brow,  the  pomp  of  power, 
The  boast  of  intellect,  what  are  they  here  ? 
Uan  sinks  to  nothing, while  he  deals  with  God. 

Yet,  let  the  grateful  hymn  of  those  who  share 
A  boundless  tide  of  blessings — those  who  tread 
Their  pilgrim  path,  rejoicing  in  the  hope 
Of  an  ascended  Saviour — through  these  walls 
For  ever  flow.     Thou  dedicated  dome  ! 
May'st  thou  in  majesty  and  beauty  stanO: 
Stand,  and   give  praise,  until  the  rock-ribbed 

earth 

In  her  last  throes  shall  tremble.    Then  dissolve 
Into  thy  native  dust,  with  one  long  sigh 
Of  melody,  while  the  redeemed  souls 
That,  'neath  thine  arch,  to  endless  life  were 

born, 

Go  up,  on  wings  of  glory,  to  the  "  house 
Not  made  with  bauds." 


THE  CHRISTIAN   GOING  HOME. 


Occasioned  by  the  words  of  a  dying  friend,- -"Bo- 
fore  morning,  I  shall  be  at  home." 


HOME  !  home  !  its  glorious  threshold 

Through  parted  clouds  I  see, 
Those  mansions  by  a  Saviour  bought, 

Where  I  have  longed  to  be, 
And,  lo !  a  bright  unnumbered  host 

O'erspread  the  heavenly  plain, 
Not  one  is  silent — every  harp 

Doth  swell  the  adoring  strain. 

Fain  would  my  soul  be  praising 

Amid  that  sinless  throng, 
Fain  would  my  voice  be  raising 

Their  everlasting  song, — 
Hark !  hark  !  they  bid  me  hasten 

To  leave  the  fainting  clay, 
Friends !  hear  ye  not  the  welcome  sound  I 

"  Arise,  and  come  away." 


THE  CHRISTIAN  GOING  HOME.  49 

Before  the  dawn  of  morning 

These  lower  skies  shall  light, 
I  shall  have  joined  their  company 

Above  this  realm  of  night, 
Give  thanks,  my  mourning  dear  ones, 

Thanks  to  the  Eternal  King, 
Who  crowns  my  soul  with  victory 

And  plucks  from  Death  the  sting. 


WAITING  UPON  THE  LORD. 


"I  will  wait  upon  the  Lord,  that  hideth  his  fr.ce.* 

ISAIAH* 


WHERE'ER  thine  earthly  lot  is  cast, 

Whate'er  its  duti««  ^rove, 
To  toil  'neath  penury's  piercing  blast, 

Or  share  the  cell  of  love, 
Or  'mid  the  pomp  of  wealth  to  live, 

Or  wield  of  powei  the  rod, 
Still  as  a  faithful  sen  ant  strive 

To  wait  alone  on  God. 

Should  disappointment's  blighting  sway 

Destroy  of  joy  the  bloom, 
Till  one  by  one  thy  hopes  decay 

In  darkness  and  the  tomb, 
Should  Heaven  its  cheering  smile  withhold 

From  thy  disastrous  fate, 
And  foes  arise  like  billows  bold,— 

Still,  on  Jehovah  wait. 


WAITING   UPON  THE  LORD.  51 

timid  dawn  her  couch  forsakes, 

Or  noon-day  splendours  glide, 
Or  eve  her  curtain' d  pillow  takes, 

While  watchful  stars  preside, 
Or  midnight  drives  the  throngs  of  care 

Far  from  her  ebon  throne, 
Unwearied  in  thy  fervent  prayer 

Wait  thou  on  God  alone. 

But  should  He  still  conceal  his  face 

Till  flesh  and  spirit  fail, 
And  bid  thee  darkly  run  the  race 

Of  Time's  receding  vale, 
With  what  a  doubly  glorious  ray 

His  smile  will  light  that  sky 
Where  ransom' d  sodls  rejoicing  lay 

Their  robes  of  mourning  by 


52 


DEATH-BED  OF  THE  REV.  DR. 
PAYSON. 


"The  eye  spoke  after  the  tongue  became  motion  - 
ess.  Look^g  on  his  wife,  and  glancing  over  the 
others  who  surrounded  his  bed,  it  rested  on  his  eldest 
eon,  with  an  expression  which  was  interpreted  by  all 
present  to  say,  as  plainly  as  if.  he  had  uttered  the 
words  of  the  beloved  disciple,— 'Behold  thy  mo 
ther!'" 

Memoir  of  the  REV.  EDWARD  PAYSON. 


WHAT  said  the  eye  ?  The  marble  lip  spake  not, 
Save  in  that  quivering  sob  with  which  stern 

death 

Crusheth  life's  harp-strings.   Lo !  again  it  pours 
A  tide  of  more  than  uttered  eloquence — 
"Son!  look  upon  thy  mother," — and  retires 
Beneath  the  curtain  of  the  drooping  lids 
To  hide  itself  for  ever.     'Tis  the  last, 
Last  glance  !  and,  ah  !  how  tenderly  it  fell 
Upon  that  loved  companion,  and  the  groups 


DEATH-BED   OF  THE  REV.   DR.   PAYSON.       53 

Who  wept  around.     Full  well  the  dying  knew 
The  value  of  those  holy  charities 
Which  purge  the  dross  of  selfishness  away  ; 
And  deep  he  felt  that  woman's  trusting  heart 
Rent  from  the  cherished  prop  wlu'ch,  next  to 

Christ, 

Had  been  her  stay  in  all  adversities, 
Would  take  the  balm-cup  best  from  that  dear 

hand 

Which  woke  the  sources  of  maternal  love  ; 
That  smile  whose  winning  paid  for  sleepless 

nights 
Of  cradle-care — that  voice   whose    murmured 

tones 

Her  own  had  moulded  to  the  words  of  prayer. 
How  soothing  to  a  widowed  mother's  breast, 
Her  first-born's  sympathy. 

Be  strong,  young  man 

Lift  the  protector's  arm,  the  healer's  prayer- 
Be  tender  in  thine  every  word  and  deed. 
A  spirit  watcheth  thee  !     Yes,  he  who  pass'd 
From  shaded  earth  up  to  the  full-orbed  day, 
Will  be  thy  witness  in  the  court  of  Heaven, 
How  thou  dost  bear  his  mantle.     So,  farewell, 
Leader  in  Israel !     Thou  whose  radiant  path 
Was  like  the  angel's  standing*  in  the  sun, 
Undazzled  and  unswerving.     It  was  meet 
That  thou  should' st  rise  to  light  without  a  cloud, 

*  Reve'ations,  xix.,  17. 


MISSION  HYMN. 


ONWAKD  !  onward !  men  of  heaven, 

Rear  the  Gospel's  banner  high ; 
Rest  not,  till  its  light  is  given, — 

Star  of  every  pagan  sky. 
Bear  it  where  the  pilgrim-stranger 

Faints  'neath  Asia's  vertic  ray ; 
Bid  the  red-browed  forest-ranger 

Hail  it,  ere  he  fades  away. 

Where  the  arctic  ocean  thunders,— 

Where  the  tropics  fiercely  glow, 
Broadly  spread  its  page  of  wonders 

Brightly  bids  its  radiance  flow. 
India  marks  its  lustre,  stealing, 

Shivering  Greenland  loves  its  rays, 
Afric,  'mid  her  deserts  kneeling, 

Lifts  the  untaught  strain  of  praise. 

Rude  in  speech,  or  grim  in  feature, 
Dark  in  spirit  though  they  be, 

Show  that  light  to  every  creature,— 
Prince  or  vassal, — bond  or  free.— 


MISSION  HYMN,  $5 


Lo !  they  haste  to  every  nation ; 

Host  on  host  the  ranks  supply ; 
Onward !  Christ  is  your  salvation, 

And  your  death  is  victory  i 


ON  MEETING  SEVERAL  FORMER 

PUPILS  AT  THE  COMMUNION 

TABLE. 


"1  have  no  greater  joy  than  to  see  my  children 
walk  in  the  truth."— ST.  JOHN. 


WHEN  kneeling  round  a  Saviour's  board 
Fair  forms,  and  brows  belov'd,  I  see, 

Who  once  the  paths  of  peace  explor'd, 
And  trac'd  the  studious  page  with  me, — 

Who  from  my  side  with  pain  would  part ; 

5jMy  entering  step  with  gladness  greet, 
And  pour  complacent,  o'er  my  heart, 
Affection's  dew-drops,  pure  and  sweet, 

When  now,  from  each  remember'd  face 
Beam  tranquil  hope  and  trust  benign, 

When  in  each  eye  Heaven's  smile  I  trace, 
The  tear  of  joy  siffuses  mine. 


MEETING  AT   THE   COMMUNION   TABLE.       57 

Father !  I  bless  thy  ceaseless  care, 
Which  thus  its  holiest  gifts  hath  shed ; 

Guide  Thou  their  steps  through  every  snare, 
From  every  danger  shield  their  head. 

From  treacherous  error's  dire  control, — 
From  pride,  from  change,  from  darkness freo 

Preserve  each  timorous,  trusting  soul, 
That,  like  the  ark-dove,  flies  to  Thee. 

And  may  the  wreath  that  cloudless  days 
Around  our  hearts  so  fondly  wove, 

Still  bind  us  till  we  speak  Thy  praise, 
As  sister  spirits,  one  in  love  ; — 

One,  where  no  lingering  ill- can  harm  ; 

One,  where  no  stroke  of  fate  can  sever  J 
Where  nought  but  holiness  doth  charm, 

And  all  that  charms  shall  live  for  ever. 


THE  LOST  SIST£R, 


THEY  wak'd  me  from  my  sleep,  I  Knew  not 
why, 

And  bade  me  hasten  where  a  midnight  lamp 
Gleam' d  from  an  inner  chamber.     There  she 

With  brow  so  pale,— who  y ester-morn  breath' d 

forth 

Through  joyous  smiles  her  superflux  of  bliss 
Into  the  hearts  of  others.     By  her  side 
Her  hoary  sire,  with  speechless  sorrow,  gazed 
Upon  the  stricken  idol,— all  dismay 'd 
Beneath  his  God's  rebuke.  And  she  who  nurs  d 
That  fair  young  creature  at  her  gentle  breast, 
And  oft  those  sunny  locks  had  deck'd  with  buds 
Of  rose  and  jasmine,  shuddering  wip'd  the  dews 
Which  death  distils. 

The  sufferer  just  had  given 
Her  long  farewell,  and  for  the  last,  last  time 
Touch' d  with  cold  lips  his  cheek  who  led  so  late 
Her  footsteps  to  the  altar,  and  receiv'd 
In  the  deep  transport  of  an  ardent  heart 
Her  vow  of  love     And  she  had  striven  to  press 


THE    LOST   SISTER,.  59 

That  golden  circlet  with  her  bloodless  hand 
Back  on  his  finger,  which  he  kneeling  gave 
At  the  bright,  bridal  morn.     So,  there  she  lay 
In  calm  endurance,  like  the  smitten  lamb 
Wounded  in  flowery  pastures,  from  whose  breast 
The  dreaded  bitterness  of  death  had  pass'd. 
—But  a  faint  wail  disturb' d  the  silent  scene, 
And,  in  its  nurse's  arms  a  new-born  babe 
Was  borne  in  utter  helplessness  along, 
Before  that  dying  eye. 

Its  gather' d  film 

Kindled  one  moment  with  a  sudden  glow 
Of  tearless  agony, — and  fearful  pangs, 
Racking  the  rigid  features,  told  how  strong 
A  mother's  love  doth  root  itself.     One  cry 
Of  bitter  anguish,  blent  with  fervent  prayer, 
Went  up  to  Heaven, — and,  as  its  cadence  sank, 
Her  spirit  enter' d  there. 

Morn  after  morn 

Rose  and  retir'd ;  yet  still  as  in  a  dream 
I  seem'd  to  move.     The  certainty  of  loss 
Fell  not  at  once  upon  me.     Then  I  wept 
As  weep  the  sisterless. — For  thou  wen  fled, 
My  only,  my  belov'd,  my  sainted  one, — 
Twin  of  my  spirit !  and  my  nurnber'd  days 
Must  wear  the  sable  of  that  midnight  hour 
Which  rent  thee  from  me. 


MISTAKEN  GRIEF. 


'  There  1 10  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  thera 
the  weary  ate  at  rest."  JOB. 


WE  mourn  for  those  who  toil, 

The  wretch  who  ploughs  the  main, 
The  slave  who  hopeless  tills  the  soil 

Beneath  the  stripe  and  chain  ; 
For  those  who  in  the  world's  hard  race, 

O'erwearied  and  unblest, 
A  host  of  gliding  phantoms  chase  ; 

Why  mourn  for  those  who  rest  ? 

We  mourn  for  those  who  sin, 

Bound  in  the  tempter's  snare, 
Whom  syren  pleasure  beckoneth  in 

To  prisons  of  despair,-  - 
Whose  hearts,  by  whirlwind  passions  torn, 

Are  wreck'd  on  folly's  shore, 
But  why  in  anguish  should  we  mourn 

For  those  who  sin  no  more  ? 


MISTAKEN    OXIEF. 

We  mourn  for  those  who 

Whom  stern  afflictions  bei  d, 
Despairing  o'er  the  lowly  sle^j* 

Of  lover  or  of  friend  ; 
But  they  who  Jordan's  swell' nr  tide 

No  more  are  call'd  to  stern  . 
Whose  tears  the  hand  of  Goc  hath 

Why  should  we  mourn  for  them  I 


DEPARTURE    OF   MISSIONARIES 
FOR  CEYLON. 


WAVE,  wide  Ceylon,  your  foliage  fair. 
Your  spicy  fragrance  freely  strew, 

See,   ocean's  threatening  surge  we  dare. 
To  bear  salvation's  gift  to  you. 

AnJ,  ye  who  long  with  faithful  hand 
Have  fondly  till'd  that  favour' d  aoil, 

We  corne,  we  come,  a  brother-band 
To  share  the  bunion  of  vour  toil. 

Land  of  our  birth  !  we  may  not  stay 
The  ardour  of  our  hearts  to  tell, 

Friends  of  our  youth  !  we  dare  not  say 
How  deep  within  our  souls  ye  dwell. 

But  when  the  dead,  both  small  and  great, 
Shall  stand  before  the  Judge's  seat, 

When  sea,  and  sky,  and  earthly  state, 
All  like  a  baseless  vision  fleet, 


DUPARTUIIK  OF  MISSIONARIES  FOR  OSTLOW.    63 

The  hope  that  then  some  r.eathen  eye 
Thro'  us,  an  angel's  glance  may  raise, 

Bids  us  to  vanquish  nature's  tie, 
And  turn  her  parting  tear  to  praiaa, 


CRY   OF  THE  CORANNAS. 


"  Missionaries  are  going  far  beyond  us, — but  they 
ronie  not  to  us.  We  have  been  promised  a  mission 
*ry,  but  can  get  none.  God  has  given  us  plenty  of 
corn,  but  we  are  perishing  for  want  of  instruction. 
Our  people  are  dying  every  day.  We  have  heard 
there  is  another  life  after  death,  but  we  know  no 
thing  of  it." 


WE  see  our  infants  fade.     The  mother  clasps 
The  enfeebled  form,  and  watches  night  and  day 
Its  speechless  agony,  with  tears  and  cries, 
But  there's  a  hand  more  strong  than  her  despair, 
That  rends  it  from  her  bosom.    Our  young  men 
Are  bold  and  full  of  strength,  but  something 

comes, 

We  know  not  what,  and  so  they  droop  and  die. 
Those  whom  we  lov'd  so  much,  our  gentler 

friends, 
Who  bless  our  homes,  we  gaze,  and  they  art 

gone. 


CHY  OF  THE  CORANNAS.  65 

Our  mighty  chiefs,  who  in  the  battle's  rage 
Tower'd  up  like  gods,  so  fearless,  and  return'd 
So  loftily,  behold  !  they  pine  away 
Like  a  pale  girl,  and  so,  we  lay  them  down 
With  the  forgotten  throng,  who  dwell  in  dust. 

They  call  it  death,  and  we  have  faintly  heard 

By  a  far  echo  o'er  the  distant  sea 

There  was  a  life  beyond  it.     Is  it  so  ? 

If  there  be  aught  above  this  mouldering  mound 

Where  we  do  leave  our  friends, — if  there  be 

hope, 

So  passing  strange,  that  they  should  rise  again 
And  we  should  see  them,  we  who  mourn  them 

now, 

We  pray  you  speak  such  glorious  tidings  forth 
In  our  benighted  clime.    Ye  heaven-spread  sails 
Pass  us  not  by  !     Men  of  the  living  God  ! 
Upon  our  mountain-heights  we  stand  and  shout 
To  you  in  our  distress.     Fain  would  we  hear 
Your  wondrous  message  fully,  that  our  hearta 
May  hail  its  certainty,  before  we  go 
Ourselves  to  those  dark  caverns  of  the  dead, 
Where  everlasting  silence  seems  to  reign. 


66 


GIFT  OF  A  BIBLE. 


BEHDLD  the  b«x>k, — o'er  which,  from  anrienl 

time, 
Sad    penitence    hath    poured    the    prayerful 

breath, 
And  meek  devrtion  bowed  with  joy  sublime, 

And  nature  amied  her  for  the  strife  of  death, 
And  trembling  hope  renewed  her  wreath  divine, 
And  faith  an  anchor  gained : — that  holy  book  is 
thine. 

Benold  the  book, — whose  sacred   truths    to 

spread 

Christ's  heralds  toil  beneath  a  foreign  sky, 
Pouring  its  blessings  o'er  the  heathen's  head, 

A  martyr- courage  kindling  in  their  eye. 
Wide  o'er  the  globe  its  glorious  light  must  shine, 
As  glows  the  arch  rf  heaven : — that  holy  book  ia 
thine. 

Here  search  with  humble  heart,  and  ardent  eye, 
Where  plants  of  peace  in  bloom    celestial 
grow; 


em  OF  A  BISLE,  67 

Here  breathe  to  mercy's  ear  the  contritt  sigh, 
And  bid  the  soul's  unsullied  fragrance  flow 
To  Him  who  shuts  the  rose  at  even-tide, 
And  opes  its  dewy  eye  when  earliest  sunbeams 
glide 

May  Heaven's  puie  Spirit  touch  thy  soften'd 

heart, 

And  guide  thy  feet  through  life's  eventful  lot: 
That  when  from  this  illusive  scene  I  part. 

And  in  the  grave  lie  mouldering  and  forgot, 
This,  my  first  gift,  like  golden  link,  may  join 
Thee,  to  that  angel -band  around  the   Throns 
Divine. 


HOME  MISSIONS. 


TTTKN  thee  to  thine  own  broad  wateiSb 

Laoor  in  thy  native  earth, 
Call  salvation's  sons  and  daughters 

From  the  clime  that  gave  thee  birth, 

Here  are  pilgrim -souls  benighted, 

Here  are  evils  to  be  slain, 
Graces  in  their  budding  blighted, 

Spirits  bound  in  error's  chain. 

Raise  the  Gospel's  glorious  streamer 
Where  yon  cloud-topp'd  forest  waves, 

Follower  of  the  meek  Redeemer 
Serve  him  'mid  thy  father's  graves. 


69 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 


SHE  passeth  hence, — a  friend  from  loving  friends, 
A  mother  irom  her  children.     Time  hath  shed 
No  frost  upon  her,  and  the  tree  of  life 
Glows  in  the  freshness  of  its  summer  prime. — 
YeJ  still  she  passeth  hence  :  her  work  on  earth 
Soon  done,  and  well.    Her's  was  the  unwavering 

mind, 

The  untiring  hand  in  duty.     Firm  of  soul 
And  pure  in  purpose,  on  the  Eternal  Rock 
Of  Christian  trust,  her  energies  reposed, 
And  sought  no  tribute  from  a  shadowy  world. 
Her  early  hope  and  homage  clave  to  God, 
When  the  bright  skies,  the  untroubled  founts  of 

youth, 
With   all   their  song-birds,   all    their    flowers, 

rose  up 

To  tempt  her  spirit.     So,  in  hours  of  pain, 
He  did  remember  her,  and  on  her  brow 
And  in  her  breast,  the  dove-like  messenger 
Found  peaceful  home. 

O  thou,  whom  grieving  lov« 
Would  blindly  pinion  in  this  vale  of  tears, 


70  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEITO. 

Farewell !     It  is  a  glorious  flight  for  fahh 
To  trace  thy  upward  path,  above  this  clime 
Of  change  and  storm.    We  will  remember  tha« 
At  thy  turf-bed,— and,  'mid  the  twilight  hour 
Of  solemn  music,  when  the  buried  friend 
Comes  back  so  visibly,  and  seems  to  fill 
Tlie  vacant  chair,  our  speech  shall  be  of  tUe®, 


THE  JOURNEY  WITH  THE  DEAD, 


THEY  journey  'neath  the  summer  sky, 

A  lov'd  and  loving  train, 
But  Nature  spreads  her  genial  charms 

To  lure  their  souls  in  vain, 
Husband  and  wife  and  child  are  there, 

Warm-hearted,  true  and  kind, 
Yet  every  kindred  lip  is  seal'dy 

And  every  head  declin'd. 

Weary  and  sad,  their  course  is  bent 

To  seek  an  ancient  dome, 
Where  hospitality  hath  made 

A  long-remember'd  home ; 
And  one  with  mournful  care  they  bring 

Whose  footstep  erst  was  gay 
Amid  these  halls  ;  why  comes  she  now 

In  sorrow's  dark  array  ? 

Here  fell  a  sainted  grandsire's  prayer 

Upon  her  infant  rest, 
And  with  the  love  of  ripen' d  years 

The  cherish' d  haunt  was  blest , 


72  JOURNEY   WITH  THE  DEAD. 

Here  was  the  talisman  that  bade 
Her  heart's  blood  sparkle  high, 

Why  steals  no  flush  across  her  cheek  f 
No  lightning  to  her  eye  ? 

They  bear  her  to  the  house  of  God, 

But  though  that  hallow'd  spot 
Is  fill'd  with  prayer  from  lips  she  lov'd 

Her  voice  respondeth  not, 
She  heedeth  not,  she  heedeth  not, 

She,  who  from  early  days 
Had  joy'd  within  that  holy  Church, 

To  swell  Jehovah's  praise. 

Then  onward  toward  a  narrow  cell 

They  tread  the  grass-grown  track, 
From  whence  the  unreturning  guest 

Doth  send  no  tidings  back ; 
There  sleeps  the  grandsire  high  and  brave 

In  freedom's  battles  tried,* 
With  him  whose  banner  was  the  cross 

Of  Jesus  crucified. 

Down  by  those  hoary  chiefs  she  laid 

Her  young,  unfrosted  head, 
To  rise  no  more,  until  the  voice 

Of  Jesus  wakes  the  dead, 


*  Gener'al  Putnam. 


JOURNEY   WITH   THE   DEAD.  73 

From  her  own  dear,  domestic  power, 

From  deep,  confiding  love, 
From  earth's  unshaded  smile,  she  turn'd 

To  purer  bliss  above. 


PRISONERS'  EVENING  HYMN. 

».*IUTTEN   FOR  THE  FEMALES   IN    THE    CONNECT* 
CUT  STATE  TRISCN. 


THE  silent  curtains  of  the  night 

Our  lonely  cell  surround, 
God's  dwelling  is  in  perfect  light, 

His  mercy  hath  no  bound. 

Still  on  the  sinful  and  the  vile 

His  daily  bounties  fall, 
And  still  his  sun  with  cheering  smile 

Dispenses  good  to  all. 

The  way  of  wickedness  is  hard, 

Its  bitter  fruits  we  know, 
Shame  in  this  world  is  its  reward. 

And  in  the  future,  woe. 

But  Thou !  who  see'st  us  while  we  pay 

The  penance  of  our  guilt, 
Cast  not  our  souls  coridemn'd  away, 

Christ's  blood  for  us  was  spilt. 


FRiSONERS*    EVENING  HYMN,  75 

Deep  root  within  a  soil  subdued 

Let  true  repentance  take, 
And  be  its  fruits  a  life  renew'd, 

For  the  Redeemer's  sake. 

T/plift  our  spirits  from  the  ground, 

Give  to  our  darkness,  light. 
Oh  thou !  whose  mercies  have  r.o  bound. 

Preserve  us  safe  this  night* 


THE  HUGUENOT  PASTOR. 


During  the  persecution  of  the  Huguenots  in  France, 
«oon  after  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of  Nantz,  one 
of  their  ministers,  possessed  of  great  learning  and 
piety,  having  witnessed  the  demolition  of  his  own 
Church  at  Montpelier,  was  induced  by  the  solicita 
tions  of  his  people,  to  preach  to  them  in  the  night, 
upon  its  ruins.  For  this  offenc«,  he  was  condemned 
to  be  broken  on  the  wheel. 


BEHOLD  him  on  the  ruins,     not  of  fanes 
With  ivy  mantled,  which  the  touch  of  time 
Hath  slowly  crumbled, — but  amid  the  wreck 
Of  his  own  temple,  by  infuriate  hands 
In  shapeless  masses,  and  rude  fragments  strown 
Wide  o'er  the  trampled  turf.     Serene  he  stood, 
A  pale,  sad  beauty  on  his  youthful  brow, 
With  eyes  uprais'd,  as  if  his  stricken  soul 
Fled  from  material  things.  Where  was  the  spire 
That  solemn  through  those  chestnut  trees  looked 

forth  ? 
The  tower,  the  arch,  the  altar,  whence  he  bless' d 


THE  HUGUENOT  PASTOR.  77 

A  kneeling  throng  ?  the  font  where  infancy 
Rais'd  in  his  arms  to  God  was  consecrate, 
An  incense-breathing  bud  ?  Not  on  such  themes 
Uar'd  his  fond  thoughts  to  dwell,  but  firm  in 

faith 

ETe  lifted  up  his  voice  and  spake  of  Heaven, 
Where  desolations  come  not. 

Midnight  hung 

Preary  and  dense  around,  and  the  lone  lamp 
That  o'er  his  Bible  stream' d,  hung  tremulous 
Beneath  the  fitful  gale. 

There,  resting  deep 

Upon  the  planted  staff,  were  aged  men, 
The  grave's  white  tokens  in  their  scatter'd  hair, 
And  youthful  forms,  with  gaze  intensely  fix'd 
On  their  beloved  Pastor,  as  he  taught 
Of  Christ  their  righteousness,  while  here  and 

there 

A  group  of  mourning  mothers  from  whose  arms 
Their  babes  by  persecution's  rage  were  torn 
Blent  with  their  listening,  the  low  sob  of  grief. 
Close  by  their  father's  knees  young  children 

cower' d 

And  in  each  echoing  footstep  fear'd  a  fo«, 
— It  was  a  time  of  trouble,  and  the  flock  , 
Came  hungering  for  the  heavenly  bread  which 

gives 

Strength  to  the  heavy  laden.     'Twas  a  scene 
That  France  might  well  have  wept  with  tears 

of  blood 


78  THE  HUGUENOT  PASTOA. 

But  in  the  madness  of  a  dire  disease 

She  slew  her  loyal    sons,  and  urg'd  the  sword 

'Gainst  her  own  vitals. 

Lo !  the  dawn  is  out, 

"With  her  grey  banner,  and  the  parting  flock 
Seek  their  own  homes,  praising  the  Hand  tha 

spares 

Their  faithful  shepherd.     Silent  evening  wakes 
Far  different  orgies.     Yonder  mangled  form 
Sinking  'neath  murderous  fury,  can  ye  trace 
Its  lineaments  of  beauty,  'mid  the  wreck 
Of  anguish  ajid  distortion  ?     Son  of  God  ! 
Is  this  thy  messenger,  whose  voice  so  late 
ThrilPd  with  an  angel's  sweetness,  as  it  pour'd 
Thy  blessing  on  the  people  ? 

Yet,  be  still, 

A.nd  breathe  no  bitter  thought  above  his  dust, 
Who  served  the  Prince  of  Peace.     The  spfrit  of 

love 

Did  make  that  lifeless  breast  its  temple-shrine, 
Offend  it  not.     But  raise  with  tender  hand 
Those  blood- stain' d  curls,  and  shed  the  pitying 

tear. 

—That  marble  lip  no  more  can  bless  its  foes, 
But  from  the  wreck  of  martyrdom,  the  soul 
Hath  risen  n  radiance,  o'er  the  strife  of  man* 


79 


'THIS  IS  NOT  YOUR  REST.1 


WHEN  Heaven  s  unerring  pencil  writes,  onevary 

pilgrim's  breast, 
Its  passport  to  Time's  changeful  shore,  "  lo,  this 

is  not  your  res/," 
Why  build  ye  towers,  ye  fleeting  ones?  why 

bowers  of  fragrance  rear  ? 
As  if  the  self-deceiving  soul  might  find  its  Eden 

here, 

In  vain !  In  vain !  wild  storms  will  rise  and  o'er 

your  fabrics  sweep, 
Yet  when  loud  thunders  wake  the  wave,  and 

deep  replies  to  deep, 
When  in  your  path,  Hope's  broken  prism  doth 

shed  its  parting  ray, 
Spring  up  and  fix  your  tearlul  eye  on  undeclining 

day. 

If  like  an  icerbolt  to  the  heart,  frail  Friendship's 

altered  eye 
Admits  those  rosy  wreaths  are  dead,  it  promia'd 

could  not  die, 


80  "THIS  IS  NOT  YOUR  KEST.'* 

Lilt,  lift  to  an  Eternal  Friend,  the   agonizing 

prayer, 
The  souls  that  put  their  trust  in  Him,  shall  never 

know  despair. 

tf  Fancy,   she  who  bids  young  Thought,   its 

freshest  incense  bring, 
By  stern  reality  rebuk'd,  should  fold  her  stricken 

wing, 
There  is  a  brighter,  broader  realm  than  she  has 

yet  leveal'd, 
From  flesh-girt  man's  exploring  eye,  and  anxious 

ear  conceal' d. 

Earth  is  Death's  palace  :  to  his  court  he  sum 
mons  great  and  small, 

The  crown'd,  the  homeless  and  the  slave,  are 
but  his  minions  all ; 

We  turn  us  shrinking  from  the  truth,  the  closa 
pursuit  we  fly, 

But  faulter  on  the  grave's  dark  brink,  and  lay 
us  down  and  die. 


81 


THE  SECOND  BIRTH-DAY. 


THOU  dost  not  dream,  my  little  one, 

How  great  the  change  must  be, 
These  two  years,  since  the  morning  sui 

First  shed  his  beams  on  thee  ; 
Thy  Iktle  hands  did  helpless  fall, 

As  with  a  stranger's  fear, 
And  a  faint  wailing  cry  was  all 

That  met  thy  mother's  ear. 

But  now  the  dictates  of  thy  will 

Thine  active  feet  obey, 
And,  pleased,  thy  busy  ringers  still 

Among  thy  playthings  stray; 
And  thy  full  eyes  delighted  rove 

The  pictured  page  along, 
And,  lisping  to  the  heart  of  love/ 

Thy  thousand  wishes  throng. 

Fair  boy  t  the  wanderings  of  thy  way, 

It  is  not  mine  to  trace  : 
Through  buoyant  youth's  exulting  day 

Or  manhood's  bolder  race: 
6 


82  THE  SECDND  BIRTH-PAY. 

What  discipline  thy  heart  may  need, 
What  clouds  may  veil  thy  sun, 

The  eye  of  God  alone  can  read — • 
And  let  his  will  be  done. 

Yet  might  a  mother's  prayer  oflove 

Thy  destiny  control, 
Those  boasted  gifts  that  often  prove 

The  ruin  of  the  soul, 
Beauty  and  fortune,  wit  and  fame, 

For  thee  it  would  not  crave, 
But  tearful  urge  a  fervent  claim 

To  joys  beyond  the  grave. 

O  !  be  thy  wealth  an  upright  heart, 

Thy  strength  the  sufferer's  stay, 
Thine  early  choice,  that  better  part, 

Which  cannot  fade  away  ; 
Thy  zeal  for  Christ  a  quenchless  fire. 

Thy  friends  the  men  of  peace, 
Thy  heritage  an  angel's  lyre, 

When  earthly  changes  cease 


83 


DEATH  OF  A  CLERGYMAN. 


So,  from  the  field  of  labour  thou  art  gone 
To  thy  reward, — like  him  who  putteth  off 
His  outer  garment,  at  the  noontide  hour, 
To  take  a  quiet  sleep.     Thy  zeal  hath  run 
Its  course  untiring,  and  thy  qm'cken'd  love, 
Where'er  thy  Master  pointed,  joy'd  to  go. 

—Amid  thy  faithful  toil,  His  summons  came, 
Warning  thee  home, — and  thou  didst  loose  thy 

heart 

From  thy  fond  flock,  and  from  affection's  bonds, 
And  from  thy  blessed  children's  warm  embrace, 
With  smiles  and  songs  of  praise. 

Death  smote  thee  sore, 
And  plung'd  his  keen  shaft  in  the  quivering 

nerve, 
Making  the  breath  that  stirr'd  life's  broken 

valve 

A  torturing  gasp,  but  with  thy  martyrdom 
Were  smiles  and  songs  of  praise. 


84  DEATH  OF  A   CLERGr*UN. 

And  thou  didst  rise 

Above  the  pealing  of  these  sabbath  bells 
Up  to  that  glorious  and  unspotted  church 
Whose  worship  is  eternal. 

Would  that  all 
Who  love  our  Lord  might  with  thy  welcome 

look 

On  the  last  foe, — not  as  a  spoiler,  sent 
To  wreck  their  treasures  and  to  blast  their  joysv 
But  as  a  friend,  who  wraps  the  weary  clay 
With  earth,  its  mother,  and  doth  raise  the  soul 
To  that  blest  consummation,  which  its  prayers 
Unceasingly  besought, — tho'  its  best  hopes 
But  faintly  shadow'd  forth. 

So,  tho'  we  hear 

Thy  voice  on  earth  no  more, — the  holy  hymn 
With  which  thou  down  to  Jordan's  shore  didst  ga 
To  take  thy  last,  cold  baptism,  still  shall  waft 
As  from  some  cloud,  its  echoed  sweetness  back 
To  teash  us  of  the  melody  cf  heaven. 


•'DEPART,  CHRISTIAN  SOUL." 


DEI  ART  !  depart !  the  silver  cord  is  breaking, 
The  sun-ray  fades  before  the  darken'd  sight 

The  subtle  essence  from  the  clod  is  taking, 
'Mid  groans  and  pangs,  its  everlasting  flight, 

Lingerest  thou  fearful  ?     Christ  the  grave  hath 
bless'd, 

He  in  that  lowly  couch  did  deign  to  take  his  rest. 

Depart !  thy  sojourn  here  hath  been  in  sorrow. 
Tears  were  thy  meat  along  the  thorn-clad 

path, 
The  hope  of  eve  was  but  a  clouded  morrow, 

And  sin  appall' d  thee  with  thy  Maker's  wrath, 
Earth  gave  her  lessons  :n  a  tempest-voice. 
Thy  discipline  is  ended.     Chasten'd  one,  re 
joice ! 

Thou  wert  a  stranger  here,  and  all  thy  trouble 
To  bind  a  wreath  upon  the  brow  of  pain, 


86  '  DEPART,  CHRISTIAN  SOUL." 

To  build  a  bower  upon  the  watery  bubble, 
Or  strike  an  anchor  'neath  its  depths,  was 

vain; 

Depart !  depart!  all  tears  are  wiped  away. 
The  seraph- marshall' d  road  is  toward  the  realm 

of  day. 


87 


TPIE  FOREST  TRIBES. 


WHEHE  are  thoy,  the  forest-rangers, 

Children  of  this  western- land  ? 
Who,  to  greet  the  pale-fac'd  strangers, 

Stretch'd  the  unsuspecting  hand? 
Where  are  they,  whom  passion  goaded 

Madly  to  the  unequal  fight, 
Tossing  wild  the  feathery  arrow 

'Gainst  the  girded  warrior's  might? 

Were  not  these  their  own  bright  waters  ? 

Were  not  these  their  native  skies  ? 
Rear'd  they  not  their  red-brow'd  daughteri 

Where  our  princely  mansions  rise  ? 
From  the  vale  their  roofs  have  vanish'd, 

From  these  streams  their  slight  canoe  ; 
Chieftains  and  their  tribes  have  perish'd, 

Like  the  thickets  where  they  grew. 

Though  their  blood,  no  longer  gushing, 
Wakeneth  war's  discordant  cry, 


£  THE  FO&BST  TRIBES. 

Stains  it  not  the  maple's  flushing 
When  sad  Autumn's  step  is  nigh f    • 

None  are  living  to  deplore  them, — 
None  survive  their  names  to  tell, — 

Bilt  the  sad  breeze  murmuring  o'er  then, 
to  syh  "  farewell— iarewelL" 


DEATH  OF  A  DISTINGUISHED  MAN. 


DEATH'S  shafts  are  ever  busy.     The  fair  haunts 
Where  least  we  dread  him,  and  where  most  the 

soul 

Doth  lull  itself  to  fond  security, 
Reveal  his  ministry;  tind,  woe  not  man 
Blind  to  the  future,  he  might  see  the  sky, 
Even  in  the  glory  of  its  cloudless  prime, 
Dark  with  that  arrow-flight. 

They  deemed  it  so 

Who  marked  thee  like  a  stately  column  fall, 
And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, yield  back 
Thy  breath  to  Him  who  gave  it.     Yes, — they 

felt, 
Who    saw   thy    vigorous    footstep    strangply 

chained 

Upon  the  turf  it  traversed,  and  the  chet  k, 
Flushed  high  with  health,  to  mortal  palene** 

turn'd, 

How  awful  such  a  rush  from  time  must  be. 
Thy  brow  was  calm,  yet  deep  within  thy  breast 
Were  ranklings  ot  a  recert  g-ie  "  for  her, 


50  DUATH  OF  A  DISTINGUISHED  MAN. 

The  idol  of  thy  tenderness,  with  whom 
Life  had  been  one  long  scene  of  changeless  love 
Yea,  fhou  didst  watch  the  winged  messenger 
In  sleepless  agony  that  bore  her  hence, — 
And,  when  that  bright  eye  darken'd  from  whose 

beams 
Thine  own  had  drank  from  youth  its  dearest 

j°y» 

Upraised  thine  hands  and  gave  her  back  to  God. 
The    bleeding  of   thy    heart-strings  was    not 

stanched, 
Nor  scarce  the  tear-gush  dried,  ere  death's  dire 

frost 
Congeal' d  thy  fount  of  life. 

Thy  toil  had  been, 

In  that  brief  interval,  to  bear  fresh  plants 
From  the  sweet  gan\n  which  she  loved  to  tend, 
And  bid  them  on  hoi  lu-ial-pillow  bloom. 
But,  ere  the  young  r.~»i.e,  or  the  willow-tree, 
Had  taken  their  sim^bs.!  rooting,  thou  wert  laid 
Low  by  her  side.     It  wa^  L  pleasant  place 
Methought  to  rest, — eanYn  \ve^ry  labour  done, 
Fanned  by  the  waving  of  tho^  dro^pir^  boughs. 
And  in  her  company  whom  thou  diu?t  choose, 
From  all  the  world,  to  travel  by  rhy  side, 
Confidingly, — by  deep  affection  chcsr  d, 
And  in  thy  faith  a  sharer. 

From  the  haunts 

Of  living  men,  mine  image  may  not  fleet 
Noteless  away.    The*'  will  remember  thee, 


DEATH  OF  A  DISTINGUISHED  MAN.  9J 

By  many  a  word  of  witness  for  the  truth, 
And  many  a  deed  of  bounty.     In  the  sphere 
Of  those  sublimer  charities  that  gird 
The  mind — the  soul — thine  was  the  ready  hand : 
And  for  the  hasting  of  that  day  of  peace 
Which  sheathes  the  sword,  thine  was  the  earnest 
prayer. 

In  thine  own  house  and  in  the  chuvch  of  Gcd 
There  will  be  weeping  for  thee.  Thou  no  more 
Around  thine  altar  shah  delight  to  see 
Thy  children,  and  thy  children's  children,  come 
To  take  thy  patriarch  blessing, — and  no  more 
Bring  duly  to  yon  consecrated  courts 
Thy  sabbath  offering.    Thou  hast  gained  th* 

rest 

Which  earthly  sabbaths  dimly  shadow  forth, 
And  to  that  ransomed  family  art  risen 
Which  have  no  need  of  prayer. 

But  thou,  O  man ! 

Whose  hold  on  life  is  like  the  spider's  web, 
Who  hast  thy  footing  'mid  so  many  snares, 
So  many  pitfalls,  yet  perceivest  them  not, — 
Seek  peace  with  Him  who  made  thee, — bind 

the  shield 

Of  faith  in  Christ  more  firmly  o'er  thy  breast, 
That,  when  its  pulse  stands  still,  thy  soui  may 

pass, 

Unshrinking,  unreluctant,  unamazed, 
Into  the  fulness  of  the  light  of  Heaven. 


92 


PARTING  HYMN  OF  MISSIONARIES 
TO  BURMAH. 


NATIVE  Land  !  in  summer  smiling, — 

Hill  and  valley,  grove  and  stream, — 
Home  !  whose  nameless  charms  beguiling 

Peaceful  lull'd  our  infant  dream, — 
Haunts  !  thro'  which  our  childhood  hasted 

Where  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grew, 
Church  !  where  God's  free  grace  we  tasted, 

Gems  on  Memory's  breast,— adieu. 

Mother !  who  hast  watch 'd  our  pillow, 

In  thy  tender,  sleepless  love, — 
Lo, — we  dare  the  crested  billow, — 

Mother  ! — put  thy  trust  above  ; — 
Father  !  from  thy  guidance  turning, 

O'er  the  deep  our  way  we  take,— 
Keep  the  prayerful  incense  barning 

On  thine  altar  for  our  sake. 

Brothers  !  sisters  !  more  than  ever 
Seem  our  clinging  heart-strings  tmn'd, 


TARTINO  HYMN   IF   MISSIONARIES.  93 

As  that  hallow' d  bond  we  sever 
Which  the  hand  of  nature  join'd  : 

But  the  cry  of  pagan  anguish 

Thro'  our  inmost  hearts  doth  sound, 

Countless  souls  in  misery  languish, 
We  would  haste  to  heal  their  wound. 

Burmah  !  we  would  soothe  thy  weeping, 

Take  us  to  thy  sultry  breast, 
Where  the  sainted  few  are  sleeping, 

Let  us  share  a  kindred  rest : 
Friends  !  our  span  of  life  is  fleeting, 

Hark  !  the  harps  of  angels  swell, 
Think  of  that  eternal  meeting 

Where  no  voice  shall  say  farev  eU, 


BABE  BEREAVED   OF  ITS  MOTHER. 


FAIR  is  the  tint  of  bloom, 

That  decks  thy  brow,  my  child  ; 
And  bright  thine  eye  looks  forth  from  sleep, 

Still  eloquent  and  mild  ; 
But  she,  who  would  have  joy'd 

Those  opening  charms  to  see, 
And  clasp' d  thee  in  her  sheltering  arms 

With  rapture — where  is  she  ? 

To  heed  thine  every  want 

The  watch  of  Love  is  near, 
And  all  thy  feeble  plaints  are  heard 

With  sympathy  sincere ; 
Yet  she,  to  whom  that  care 

Had  been  most  deeply  dear, 
Who  bare  thee  on  her  ceaseless  prayer, 

The  mother — is  not  here. 

Soon  will  these  lips  of  rose 

Their  new-born  speech  essay, 
But  when  thy  little  hopes  and  feara 

Win  forth  theii  lisping  way, 


*ABfi  BEREAVED  OF  IIS  MOTHER. 

The  ear  that  would  have  lov'd 
Their  dove-like  music  best, 

Lies  mouldering  in  the  lowly  bed 
Of  death's  unbroken  rest. 

Babe ! — tho'  thou  may'st  not  call 

Thy  mother  from  the  dead, 
Yet  canst  thou  learn  the  way  she  went, 

And  in,  her  footsteps  tread ; 
For  sure  that  path  will  lead 

Up  to  a  glorious  home, 
Where  happy  spirits  never  part, 

And  evil  cannot  come. 

Her's  was  the  hope  that  glows 

Unwavering  and  serene, 
The  chasten' d  spirit's  meek  repose 

In  every  changeful  scene ; 
Her's  was  the  victor-power 

When  mortal  anguish  came,—- 
Child  !— be  thy  holy  trust  thro'  lifej 

Thy  peace  in  death,  the  same. 


WHITHER  SHALL  I  FLEE  FROM 
THY  PRESENCE."— DAVID. 


TAKE  morning's  wing,  and  fly  from   zone  t« 

zone, 

To  earth's  remotest  pole,  and,  ere  old  Time 
Can  shift  one  figure  on  his  dial-plate, 
Hasle  to  the  frigid  Thule  of  mankind, 
Where  the  scant  life-drop  freezes.     Or  go  down 
To  Ocean's  secret  caverns,  'mid  the  throng 
Of  monsters  without  number,  which  no  foo* 
Of  man  hath  visited,  and  yet  returned 
To  walk  among  the  living.     Or  the  shroud 
Of  midnight  wrap  around  thee,  dense  and  deep 
Bidding  thy  spirit  slumber. 

Hop'st  thou  thus 

To  'scape  the  Almighty,  to  whose  piercing  eye 
Morn's  robe  and  midr.^ht's  vestments  are  the 

same? 

Spirit  of  truth  !— -  why  should  we  seek  to  hide 
Motive  cr  deed  from  thee  ? — why  strive  to  walk 
In  a  vain  show  before  our  fellow-men  ? 
Since  at  the  same  dread  audit  each  must  stand, 


WHTTHES.   SHALL   I   FLEE.'*  97 

And  with  a  sun-ray  read  his  brother's  breast 
While  his  own  thoughts  are  weighed  ? 

Search  thou  my  soul ! 
And,  if  aught  evil  lurks  securely  there 
Like  Achan's  stolen  hoard,  command  it  thence, 
And  hold  me  up  in  singleness  of  heart, 
And  simple,  child-like  confidence  in  Thee, 
Till  time  shall  close  his  labyrinth,  and  op* 
Eternity's  broad  gate, 


THE  INDIAN'S  WELCOME  TO  THE 
PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


"On  Friday,  Mnrch  16th,  1622,  while  the  colonists 
were  busied  in  their  usual  labors,  they  were  much 
surprised  to  see  a  savage  walk  boldly  towards  turn, 
and  salute  them  witlr,  'much  welcome.  EnglUhj 
much  welcome,  Englishmen.'  " 


ABOVE  them  spread  a  stranger  sky 

Around,  the  sterile  plain, 
The  rock-bound  coast  rose  frowning  nigh; 

Beyond, — the  wrathful  main  : 
Chill  remnants  of  the  wintry  snow 

Still  chok'd  the  encumber'd  soil, 
Yet  forth  those  Pilgrim  Fathers  go, 

To  mark  their  future  toil. 

'Mid  yonder  vale  their  corn  must  rise 

In  summer's  ripening  pride, 
And  there  the  church-spire  woo  the  skies 

Its  sister-school  beside. 


THE  INDIAN'S  WELCOME.  99 

Perchance  'mid  England's  velvet  green 
Some  tender  thought  repos'd, — 

Though  nought  upon  their  stoic  mien 
Such  soft  regret  disclos'd. 

When  sudden  from  the  forest  wide 

A  red-brow'd  chieftain  came, 
With  towering  form,  and  haughty  stride, 

And  eye  like  kindling  llame  : 
No  wrath  he  breath' d,  no  conflict  sought. 

To  no  dark  ambush  drew, 
But,  simply  to  the  Old  World  brought, 

The  welcome  of  the  New. 

That  welcome  was  a  blast  and  ban 

Upon  thy  race  unborn. 
Was  there  no  seer,  thou  fated  Man ! 

Thy  lavish  zeal  to  warn  ? 
Thou  in  thy  fearless  faith  didst  hail 

A  weak,  invading  band, 
But  who  shall  heed  thy  children's  waL 

Swept  from  their  native  land  ? 

Thou  gav'st  the  riches  of  thy  streams, 

The  lordship  o'er  thy  waves, 
The  region  of  thine  infant  dreams, 

And  of  thy  father's  graves, 
But  who  to  yon  proud  mansions  pil'd 

With  wealth  of  earth  and  sea, 
Poor  outcast  from  thy  forest  wild, 

Say,  who  shall  welcome  thee  f 


100 


BIRTH-DAY  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN 


THY  first-born's  birth-day,  Mother! 

That  v/ell-remeniber'd  time 
Returneth,  when  thy  heart's  deep  joy 

Swell'd  to  its  highest  prime. 

Thou  hast  another  treasure, 
There  in  the  cradle-shrine, 

And  she  who  near  its  pillow  plays, 
With  cheek  so  i'air,  is  thine. 

But  still,  thy  brow  is  shaded, 
The  fresh  tear  trickleth  free, 

Where  is  that  first-born  darling? 
Young  Mother,  where  is  she  I 

And,  if  she  be  in  heaven, 

She,  who  with  goodness  fraughtj. 
So  early  on  her  Father- God 

Repos'd  her  trusting  thought, 

And,  if  she  be  in  heaven, 

The  honour  how  divine, 
To  yield  an  angel  to  hifj  arma 

Who  gave  a  babe  to  thine. 


101 


THE  HALF- CENTURY  SERMON. 


L;OK  back,  look  back,  ye  grey-hair'd  worship* 

pers, 

Who  to  this  hill- top  fifty  years  ago 
Came  up  with  solemn  joy.    Withdraw  the  folda 
Which  curtaining  time  hath  gather'd  o'er  the 

scene, 
And  show  its  colouring.     The  dark  cloud  of 

war 

Faded  to  h'tful  sun-light, — on  the  ear, 
The  rumour  of  red  battle  died  away, 
A.nd  there  was  Peace  in  Zion.     So  a  throng 
3'er  a  faint  carpet  of  the  spring's  first  green 
Were  seen  in  glad  procession  hasting  on, 
To  set  a  watchman  on  these  sacred  walls. 
Each  eye  upon  his  consecrated  brow 
Was  fondly  fix'd,  for  in  its  pallid  hue, 
In  its  deep,  thought-worn,  spiritual  lines, 
They  trac'd  the  mission  of  the  crucified, 
The  hope  of  Israel.     High  the  anthem  swell'd, 
Ascribing  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
Who  in  his  bounteous  g  x>dness  thus  vouchsafd 
To  beautify  his  temple. 


102  THE  HALF-CENTUL-Z   SERKON. 

The  same  strain 
Riseth  once  more  ;    but  where  are   they  wha 

pour"  d 

Its  tones  melodious,  on  that  festal  day  ? 
Young  men  and  maidens  of  the  tuneful  lip, 
The  bright  in  beauty,  and  the  proud  in  strength; 
With  bosoms  fluttering  to  illusive  hope, 
Where  are  they  ?     Can  ye  tell,  ye  hoary  ones, 
Who,  lew,  and  feebly  leaning  on  the  stair, 
Bow  down,  where   erst  with  manhood's  lofty 

port 
Ye  tower'd  as   columns  ?      They  have  sunk 

away, 

Brethren  and  sisters,  from  your  empty  grasp, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  pool,  and  ye  are  left, 
With  life's  long  lessons  furrow'd  on  your  brow. 

Change  worketh  all  around  you.      The  lithe 

twig 

That  in  your  boyhood  ye  did  idly  bend 
Maketh  broad  shadow,  and  the  forest-king, 
Arching  majestic  o'er  your  school-day  sports, 
Mouldereth,  to  sprout  no  more.    The  little  babe 
Ye  as  a  plaything  dandled,  of  whose  frame 
Perchance  ye  spake  as  most  exceeding  frail 
And  prone  to  perish  like  the  flower  of  grass, 
Doth  nurse  his  children's  children  on  his  knee. 

—But  still  your  ancient  shepherd's  voice  ye 
hear, 


TEE   HALF-COTUR'/   SERMON.  103 

Tho'  age  hath  quell'd  its  power,  and  well  those 

tones 

Of  serious,  saintly  tenderness  do  stir 
The  springs  of  love  and  reverence.     As  youi 

guide 

He  in  the  heavenward  path  hath  firmly  walk'd, 
Bearing  your  joys  and  sorrows  in  his  breast, 
And  on  his  prayers.     He   at  your  household 

hearths 
Hath  spoke  his  Master's  message,  while  your 

babes, 

Listening,  imbibed  as  blossoms  drink  the  dew ; 
A.nd  when  your  dead  were  buried  from  yr:r 

sight, 
Was  he  not  there  ? 

His  scatter' d  locks  are  white 
With  the  hoar-frost  of  time,  but  in  his  soul 
There  is  no  winter.     He,  the  uncounted  gold 
Of  many  a  year's  experience  richly  spreads 
To  a  new  generation,  and  methinks 
With  high  prophetic  brow  doth  stand  sublime 
Like  Moses  'tween  the  living  and  the  dead, 
To  make  atonement.     God's  unclouded  smile 
Bustain  thee,  patriarch  !  like  a  flood  of  light 
£  till  brightening,  till,  with  those  whom  thou  hast 

taught 

And  warn'd  in  wisdom,  and  with  weeping  love 
Led  to  the  brink  of  Calvary's  cleansing  stream, 
Thou  strike  the  victor  harp  o'er  sin  and  death. 


104 


DEATH  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY, 


I  SAW  tiies  at  tliy  mother's  side,  when  she  wai 

marble  cold, 
And  thou  wert  like  some  cherub  form,  cast  in 

ethereal  mould ; 
But,  when  the  sudden  pang  of  grief  oppressed 

thine  infant  thought, 
And  'mid  thy  clear  and  radiant  eye  a  liquid 

crystal  wrought, 
I  thought  how  strong  that  faith  must  be  that 

breaks  a  mother's  tie, 

And  bids  her  leave  her  darling's  tears  for  other 
:  hands  to  dry. 

I  saw  thee  in  thine  hour  of  sport,  beside   thy 

father's  bower,  - 
Amid  his  broad  and  bright  parterre,  thyself  the 

fairest  flower, 
I  heard  thy  tuneful  voice  ring  out  upon  the 

summer  air, 
As  though  some  bird  of  Eden  poured  its  joyoug 

carol  then , 


DEATH   OF   A   BEAUTIFUL  BOY.  105 

And  lingered  with  delighted   gaze  on   happy 

childhood's  charms, 
Which   once   the   blest   Redeemer  loved,  and 

folded  in  his  arms. 

(  saw  thee  scan  the  classic  page,  with  high  and 

glad  surprise, 
And  saw  the   sun   of  science  beam,  as  on  an 

eaglet's  eyes, 
And    marked    thy  strong  and    brilliant    mind 

arouse  to  bold  pursuit, 
And   from    the   tree   of  knowledge    pluck    its 

richest,  rarest  fruit ; 
Yet  still  from  such  precocious  power  I  shrank 

with  secret  fear, 
A  shuddering  presage  that  thy  race  must  soon 

be  ended  here. 

I  saw  thee  in  the  house  of  God,  and  loved  the 

reverent  air 
With  which  thy  beauteous  head  was  bowed  low 

in  thy  guileless  prayer, 
Yet  little  deemed  how  soon  thy  place  would  be 

with  that  blest  band 
Who  ever  near  the  Eternal  Throne,  in  sinless 

worship,  stand ; 
Ah,  little  deemed  how  soon  the  tomb  must  lock 

thy  glorious  charms, 
And  wing  thine  ardent  soul  to  find  a  sainted 

mother's  arms, 


JOo 


FOREIGN  MISSIONS. 


UP,  at  the  Gospel's  glorious  call! 

Country  and  kindred  what  are  they  ? 
Rend  from  thy  heart,  these  charmers,  all, 

Christ  needs  thy  service,  hence  away. 

Tho'  free  the  parting  tear  may  rise, 
Tho'  high  may  roll  the  boisterous  wave; 

Go,  find  thy  home  'neath  foreign  skies, 
And  shroud  thee  in  a  stranger's  grave. 

Perchance,  the  Hindoo's  languid  child, 
The  infant  at  the  Burman's  knee, 

The  shiverer  in  the  arctic  wild, 

Shall  bless  the  Eternal  Sire  for  thee. 

And  what  hath  Earth  compar'd  to  this? 

Knows  she  of  wealth  or  joy  like  thine  ? 
The  ransom'd  heathen's  heavenly  bliss, 

The  plaudit  of  the  Judge  divine  ? 


107 


EVENING  THOUGHTS. 


COME  to  thy  lonely  bower,  thou  who  dost,  Icve 
The  houi  of  musing.     Come,  before  the  brow 
Of  twilight  darkens,  or  the  solemn  stars 
Look  from  their  casement.     'Mid  that  hush  of 

SOU;, 

Music  from  viewless  harps  shall  visit  thee, 
Such  as  thou  never  heard' st  amid  the  din 
Of  earth's  coarse  enginery,  by  toil  and  care 
Urged  on,  without  reprieve.      Ah!  kneel  and 

catch 

That  tuneful  cadence.  It  shall  wing  thy  thought 
Above  the  jarrings  of  this  time-worn  world, 
And  give  the  key-tone  of  that  victor-song 
Which  plucks  the  sting  from  death. 

How  closely  wrapt 

In  Quiet  slumber  are  all  things  around  ! 
The  vine-leaf  and  the  willow-fringe  stir  not, 
Nor  doth  the  chirping  of  the  feeblest  bird, 
Nor  even  the  cold  glance  of  the  vestal  moon, 
Disturb  thy  reverie.     Yet  dost  thou  think 
To  be  alone  ? — In  fellowship  more  close 


108  EVENING   THOUGHTS. 

Than  man  with  man,  pure  spirits  hover  near, 

Prompting  to  high  communion  with  the  Source 

Of  every  perfect  gift.     Lift  up  the  soul, 

For  'tis  a  holy  pleasure  thus  to  find 

Its  melody  of  musing  so  allied 

To  pure  devotion.     Give  thy  prayer  a  voice ; 

Claiming   Heaven's  blessing  on  these   sacred 

hours, 
Which,  in  the  world's  warped  balance  weighed, 

might  yield 

But  sharp  derision.     Sure  they  help  to  wp.ave 
Such  robes  as  angels  wear  ;  and  thou  shall  "asto 
In  their  dear,  deep,  entrancing  solitude 
Such  sweet  society,  that  thou  shah  leave 
**  Signet  and  staff,''  as  pledges  of  return. 


J09 


THE  AFRICAN  MOTHER    VT  HER 
DAUGHTER'S   GRAVE. 


Some  of  the  pagan  Africans  visit  the  buriai-place« 
of  their  departed  relatives,  bearing  food  and  drink  ;— • 
and  mothers  have  been  known,  for  a  long  course  of 
years,  to  bring,  in  an  agony  of  erief,  their  annual 
oblation  to  the  tombs  of  their  children 


"  DAUGHTER  !  I  bring  thee  food  ; 

The  rice-cake,  pure  and  white, 
The  cocoa,  with  its  milky  blood, 

Dates,  and  pomegranates  bright, 
The  orange,  in  its  gold, 

Fresh  from  thy  favourite  tree, 
Nuts,  in  their  ripe  and  hueky  fold, 

Dearest !  I  spread  for  thee. 

"Year  after  year,  I  tread 

Thus  to  thy  low  retreat, — 
But  now  the  snow-hairs  mark  my  head, 

A  r» rl    arro    cmnh  01  no   rm?    fa  of 


>Ul    I1UVV     IUC    SUUW-UtUIS    Uiai* 

And  age  enchains  my  feet. 


JO  THE  AFK1CAN    MOTHER. 

O  !  mam;  a  change  of  woe 
Hath  dimmed  thy  spot  of  birth, 

Since  first  my  gushing  tears  did  flow 
O'er  this  thy  bed  of  earth. 

"  There  came  a  midnight  cry  ; 

Flames  from  our  hamlet  rose  ; 
A  race  of  pale-browed  men  were  uig  >v 

They  were  our  country's  foes: 
Thy  wounded  sire  was  borne 

By  tyrant  force  away 
Thy  brothers  from  our  cabin  torn, 

While  in  my  blood  [  lay. 

"  I  watched  for  their  return, 

Upon  the  rocky  shore, 
Till  night's  red  planets  ceased  to  burn. 

And  the  long  rains  were  o'er. 
Till  seeds,  their  hands  had  sown, 

A  ripened  fruitage  bore, 
The  billows  echoed  to  my  moan, 

Yet  they  returned  no  more. 

"  But  them  art  slumbering  deep, — 

And  to  my  wildest  cry, 
When,  pierced  with  agony,  I  weep, 

Dost  render  no  reply. 
Daughter  !  my  youthful  pride, 

The  idol  of  my  eye ; — 


THE   AFRICAN   MOTHER.  in 

Why  didst  thou  leave  thy  mother's  sidks, 
Beneath  these  sands  to  lie  ?" 

Long  o'er  the  hopeless  grave 

Where  her  lost  darling  slept, 
Invoking  gods  that  could  not  save, 

That  pagan  mourner  wept. 
0  !  for  some  voice  of  power, 

To  soothe  her  bursting  sighs  : — 
"  There  is  a  resurrection  hour  ; 

Thy  daughter's  dust  shall  rise  1" 

Christians  !  ye  hear  the  cry 

From  heathen  Afric's  strand, — 
Haste  !  lift  salvation's  banner  high 

O'er  that  benighted  land  : 
With  faith  that  claims  the  skies, 

Her  misery  control, 
And  plant  the  hope  that  never  dies 

Deep  in  her  tear- we;  souL 


112 


TO  MOURNING  PARENTS. 


TENDER  guides,  in  sorrow  weeping, 
O'er  your  first-born's  smitten  bloom, 

Or  fond  memory's  vigil  keeping 
Where  the  fresh  turf  marks  her  tomb, 

Ye  no  more  shall  see  her  bearing 
Pangs  that  woke  the  dove-like  moaOj 

Still  for  your  affliction  caring, 
Though  forgetful  of  her  own. 

Ere  the  bitter  cup  she  tasted, 
Which  the  hand  of  care  doth  bring, 

Ere  the  glittering  pearls  were  wasted, 
From  glad  childhood's  fairy  string, 

Ere  one  chain" of  hope  had  rusted, 
Ere  one  wreath  of  joy  was  dead, 

To  the  Saviour,  whom  she  trusted, 
Strong  in  faith,  her  spirit  fled. 

Gone — where  no  dark  sin  is  cherished, 
Where  no  woes  nor  fears  invade, 

Gone — ere  youth's  first  flower  had  perished, 
To  a  youth  i\  at  ne'er  can  fade. 


SAILOR'S  FUNERAL, 


THE  ,'  Jp's»  bell  tolled,  and  slowly  o'er  the  dec'/? 
Cam*  forth  the  summoned  crew. — Bold,  hardy 

men, 

Far  f  >m  their  native  skies,  stood  silent  there, 
Witt  melancholy  brows.     From  a  low  cloud 
That  o'er  the  horizon  hovered,  came  the  threat 
Ofd  jtant,  muttered  thunder.     Broken  waves 
Hea,ed  up  their  sharp  white  helmets  o'er  the 

expanse 

Of  f  cean,  which  in  brooding  stillness  lay, 
Lilv-t  some  vindictive  king  who  meditates 
On  Jnoarded  wrongs,  or  wakes  the  wrathful  war. 

The  ship's  bell  tolled  !— And,  lo,  a  youthful 

form 

Which  oft  had  boldly  dared  the  slippery  shrouds 
At  midnight  watch,  was  as  a  burden  laid 
Down  at  his  comrades'  feet.      Mournful  th»T 

gazed 

Upon  his  hollow  cheek  ;  and  sor^e  t 
Who  in  that  bitter  hour  remembered  M  vH 
The  parting  blessing  of  his  hoary  biro, 
8 


k!4  SAILOR  S  FUNERAL. 

And  the  fond  tears  that  o'er  his  mother's  cheek 
Went  coursing  down,   when   his  gay,   happy 

voice 

Left  its  farewell.     But  one  who  nearest  stood 
To    that    pale    shrouded    corse    remembered 

more  ; — 

Of  a  white  cottage  with  its  shaven  lawn, 
And  blossomed  hedge,  and  of  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who,  at  a  lattice  veiled  with  woodbine,  watched 
His  last  far  step,  and  then  turned  back  to  weep. 
And  close  that  comrade  in  his  faithful  breast 
Hid  a  bright  chesnut  lock,  which  the  dead  youth 
Had  severed  with  a  cold  and  trembling  hand 
In  life's  extremity,  and  bade  him  bear 
With  broken  words  of  love's  last  eloquence 
To  his  blest  Mary.     Now  that  chosen  friend. 
Bowed  low  his  sun-burnt  face,  and  like  a  crud 
Sobbed  in  deep  sorrow. 

But  there  came  a  tone 

Clear  as  the  breaking  moon  o'er  stormy  seas- 
"  I  am  t'he  resurrection." — Every  heart 
Suppressed  its  grief,  and  every  eye  was  raised. 
There  stood  the  chaplain,  his  uncovered  brow 
Unmarked  by  earthly  passion,  while  his  voice, 
Rich  as  the  balm  from  plants  of  paradise, 
Poured  the  Eternal's  message  o'er  the  souls 
Of  dying  men.     It  was  a  holy  hour  ! 

There  was  a  plunge ! — The  riv<m  sea  com 
plained, 


SA!!.3R*S   FUNERAL.  lift 

Death  from  her  briny  bosom  took  his  own. 
The  troubled  fountains  of  the  deep  lift  up 
Their  subterranean  portals,  and  he  went 
Down  to  the  floor  of  ccean,  'mid  the  beds 
Of  brave  and  beautiful  ones.     Yet  to  my  soul, 
'Mid  all  the  funeral  pomp  with  which  this  earth 
Indulgeth  her  dead  sons,  was  nought  so  sad, 
Sublime,  or  sorrowful,  as  the  mute  sea 
Opening  h/3r  mouth  to  whelm  that  sailor  youth. 


CHRISTIAN  HOPE. 


"If  ye  then  be  risen  with  Christ,  seek  those  thlngi 
that  are  from  above,  where  Christ  sitteth  on  the  right 
hand  of  God.  Set  your  affections  on  things  above; 
for  ye  are  dead,  and  your  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in 
God."— ST.  PAUL. 


IF  with  the  Lord  your  hope  doth  rest, 
With  Christ  who  reigns  above, 

Loose  from  its  bonds  your  captive  breast, 
And  heavenward  point  its  love. 

Yes,  heavenward.     Ye're  of  holy  birth, 

Bid  your  affections  soar 
Above  the  vain  delights  of  earth, 

\Vhich,  fading,  bloom  no  more. 

Seek  ye  some  pure  and  thornless  rose  ? 

Some  friend  with  changeless  eye  ? 
Some  fount  whence  living  water  flows  I 

Go,  seek  those  things  on  high. 


HOPE.  117 


Thither  bid  Hope  a  t>/.gnm  go, 
And  Faiik  her  mansion  rear, 

J5vfln  while  amid  this  world  of  woe 
Ye  shed  tne  stranger's  tear. 

If  folly  tempts,  or  sin  allures. 

i5e  deal  to  all  tneir  an, 
So,  shall  eternal  life  be  yours 

When  time's  brief  years  depart. 


LADY  JANE  GREY. 


»N   SEEING  A    PICTURE    REPRESENTING  HER 
GAGED   IN   THE   STUDY   OF   PLATO. 


So  early  wise  !  Beauty  hath  been  to  thee 
No  traitor-friend  to  steal  the  key 
Of  knowledge  from  thy  mind, 
Making  thee  gorgeous  to  the  eye, 
Flaunting  and  flushed  with  vanity, 
Yet  inly  blind. 

Hark  !  the  hunting-bugle  sounds, 

Thy  father's  park  is  gay, 
Stately  nobles  cheer  the  hounds, 

Soft  hands  the  coursers  sway, 
Haste  to  the  sport,  away  !  away  ! 
Youth,  and  mirth,  and  Love,  are  there, 
Lingerest  thou,  fairest  of  the  fair, 
In  thy  lone  chamber  to  explore 

Ancient  Plato's  classic  lore  ? 

Grave  Roger  Ascham's  gaze 
Is  fk'd  on  thee  with  fond  amaze ; 


LADY   ,1ANE   GREY.  11 

Doubtless  the  sage  doth  marvel  deep, 
That,  for  philosophy  divine, 

A  lady  could  decline 

The  pleasure  'mid  yon  pageant-train  to  sweep, 
The  glory  o'er  some  five-barr'd  gate  to  leap, 
And,  in  the  toil  of  reading  Greek, 

Which  many  a  student  flies, 
Find  more  entrancing  rhetoric 
Than  fashion's  page  supplies. 

Ah,  sweet  enthusiast !  happier  far  for  thee 
Had'st  thou  thy  musing  intellectual  joy 
Thro'  life  indulg'd  without  alloy, 

In  solitary  sanctity, — 
Nor  dar'd  ambition's  fearful  shrift, 
Nor  laid  thy  shrinking  hand  on  Edward's  fatal 
gift. 

The  crown !  the  crown !     It  sparkles  on  thy 

brow, 

I  see  Northumberland  with  joy  elate, 
And  low  thy  haughty  sire  doth  bow, 

Honouring  thy  high  estate, 
She,  too,  the  austerely  beautiful,  whose  eye 

Check'd  thy  timid  infancy, 
Until  thy  heart's  first  buds  folded  their  leaves  to 

die, 

Homage  to  her  meek  daughter  pays : 
Yet,  sooth  to  say,  one  fond  embrace, 
One  kiss,  such,  as  the  peasant-mother  gives 


120  LADY   JANE   GREY. 

When  on  its  evening  bed  her  child  she  lays, 
Had  dearer  been  to  thee,than  all  their  courtly 
phrase. 

The  tower  !  the  tower !  thou  bright-hair' d  beau 

teous  one ! 

There,  where  the  captive's  breath 
Hath  sigh'd  itself  in  bitterness  away, 
Where  iron  nerves  have  withered  one  by  one, 
And  the  sick  eye,  shut  from  the  glorious  sun, 
Grop'd  mid  those  chilling  walls  till  idiocy 

Made  life  like  death, — 
There  must  thy  resting  be  ? 

Not  long .    Not  long  !    What  savage  band 

'Neath  thy  grated  window  bears 
His  headless  form,  his  lifeless  hand 

The  magic  of  whose  love  could  charm 

away  thy  cares  ? 

Juildford  !  thy  husband !  yet  the  gushing  tear 
Scarce  flows  to  mourn  his  fate  severe, 
Thy  pious  thought  doth  rise 
To  those  unclouded  skies, 
Where  he,  amid  the  angel  train, 
Doth  for  thy  coming  wait,  to  part  no  more  again. 

The  scaffold  !     Must  it  be  ! — Stern  England's 

Queen, 

Hast  thou  such  doom  decreed  ? 
Dwells  Draco's  soul  beneath  a  woman's  mein  ? 


AKE   GREY.  121 

Must  guileless  youth  and  peerless  beauty 

bleed? 

Away  !  Away  !    I  will  not  see  the  deed . 
Fresh  drops  of  crimson  stain  the  new-fall' n 

snow, 

The  wintry  winds  wail  fitfully  and  lo\\  ;— 
But  the  meek  victim  is  not  there, 
Far  from  this  troubled  scene, 
High  o'er  the  tyrant  queen, 
She  finds  that  crown  which  from  her  br<  V 
No  envious  hand  may  tear, 


122 


DEATH  OF  A  MISSIONARY 

AFRICA. 


THEP.E  is  a  sigh  from  Niger's  sable  realm, 
A  voice  of  Afric's  weeping.     One  hath  fallen, 
Who,  with  the  fervour  of  unresting  love, 
Allur'd  her  children  to  a  Saviour's  arms. 

Alone  he  fell, —that  heart  so  richly  fill'd 
With  all  affection's  brightest  imagery, 
In  its  drear  stranger-solitude  endured 
The  long  death-struggle,  and  sank  down  to  rest 

Say  ye,  alone  he  fell  ?     It  was  not  so, 
There  was  a  hovering  of  celestial  wings 
Around  his  lowly  couch,  a  solemn  sound 
Of  stricken  harps,  such  as  around  God's  throne 
Make  music  night  and  day.     He  might  not  tell 
Of  that  high  music,  for  his  lips  were  sealed, 
And  his  eye  closed.    And  so,  ye  say, — he  died? 
But  ail  the  glorious  company  of  heaven 
DC  any,— -he  lives,  and  that  your  brief  farewell, 
Uttered  in  tears,  was  but  the  prelude  tone 
Of  the  full  welcome  of  eternity. 


123 


DIRGE. 


«*  Mourn  for  the  living,  and  not  for  (.he  dead 
HEBREW 


I  SAW  an  infant,  marble  cold, 

Borne  from  the  pillowing  breast, 
And,  ia  the  shroud's  embracing  fold, 

Laid  down  to  dreamless  rest ; 
And,  moved  with  bitterness,  I  sighed,- 

Not  for  the  babe  that  slept, 
But  for  the  mother  at  its  side, 

Whose  soul  in  anguish  wept. 

They  bore  a  coffin  to  its  place,- 

I  asked  them.  "  Who  was  there  ?" 
And  they  replied,  "  A  form  of  grace  ; 

The  fairest  of  the  fair." 
But  for  that  blest  one  do  ye  moan, 

Whose  angel- wing  is  spread? 
No  ;  for  the  lover,  pale  and  lone,— - 

His  heart  is  with  the  dead. 


124 


I  wandered  to  a  new-made  grave, 

And  there  a  matron  lay, — 
The  love  of  Him  who  died  to  save, 

Had  been  her  spirit's  stay. 
Yet  sobs  burst  forth  of  torturing  pain  ; — 

Wail  ye  for  her  who  died  ? 
No  ;  for  that  timid,  infant  train, 

Who  roam  without  a  guide. 

Why  should  we  mourn  for  those  who  die,- 

Whose  rise  to  glory's  sphere  ? 
The  tenants  of  that  cloudless  sky 

Need  not  our  mortal  tear. 
Our  woe  seems  arrogant  and  vainj 

Perchance  it  moves  their  scorn, 
As  if  the  slave,  beneath  his  chain, 

Deplored  the  princely  born. 

We  live  to  meet  a  thousand  foes ; 

We  shrink  with  bleeding  breast, — 
Why  should  we  weakly  mourn  for  those 

Who  dwell  in  perfect  rest  ? 
Bound,  for  a  few  sad,  fleeting  years, 

A  thorn -clad  path  to  tread, 
O  !  for  the  living  spare  those  tears 

Ye  lavish  on  the  dead. 


125 


ME  VOB1S.' 


'  Vae,  Vo?n's,"  ye  whose  lip  doth  lave 

So  deeply  in  the  sparkling  wine, 
Regardless  though  that  passion- wave 

Shut  from  the  soul,  Heaven's  light  divine, 
"  Vae  Vobis" — heed  the  trumpet-blast, 

Fly  ! — ere  the  leprous  taint  is  deep, 
Fly  ! — ere  the  hour  of  hope  be  past, 

And  pitying  angels  cease  to  weep. 

"  VCR  Vobis," — ye  who  fail  to  read 

The  name  that  shines  where'er  ye  tread. 
The  Alpha  of  our  infant  creed, 

The  Omega  of  the  sainted  dead: 
It  glows  where'er  the  pencil'd  flowers 

Their  tablet  to  the  desert  show, 
Where'er  the  mountain's  rocky  towers 

Frown  darkly  o'er  the  vale  below  : 

Where  roll  the  wondrous  orbs  on  high 
In  glorious  order,  strong  and  fair? 

*  "Woe  unto  you." 


..26  YJB  TO  BIS. 

fn  every  letter  of  the  sky 

That  midnight  writes, — 'tip  there  !  'tis  there! 
'Tis  grav'd  on  ocean's  wrinkled  brow, 

And  on  the  shell  that  gems  its  shore, 
And  where  the  solemn  forests  bow, 

"  VaVobis,"  ye,  who  scorn  the  lore. 

"  VOB  Volns"  all  who  trust  in  earth, 

Who  lean  on  reeds  that  pierce  the  breast, 
Who  toss  the  bubble-cup  of  mirth, 

Or  grasp  ambition's  storm-wreath'd  crest: 
Who  early  rise,  and  late  take  rest, 

In  Mammon's  mine,  the  care-worn  slaves 
Who  find  each  phantom -race  unblest, 

Ye'-  shrink  i  eluctant  from  the  grave- 


137 


BOY'S  LAST  BEQUEST. 


HALF-RAISED  upon  his  dying  conch,  his  head 
Drooped  o'er  his  mother's  bosom, — like  a  bud 
Which,  broken  from  its  parent  stalk,  aa  ieres 
By  some  attenuate  fibre.     His  thin  hand 
From  'neath  the  downy  pillow  drew  a  book, 
And  slowly  pressed  it  to  his  bloodless  lip. 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  see  your  birth-day 

gift, 
Fresh   and  unsoiled.      Yet  have  I   kept  you! 

word, 

And  ere  I  slept  each  night,  and  every  morn, 
Did  read  its  pages,  with  my  humble  prayer, 
Until  this  sickness  came." 

He  paused — for  breath 
Came  scantily,  and  with  a  toilsome  strife. 
"  Brother  or  sister  have  I  none,  or  else 
I'd  lay  this  Bible  on  their  hearts,  and  say, 
Come,  read  it  on  my  grave,  among  the  flowers: 
So  you  who  gave  it  must  take  it  back  again, 
And  love  it  for  my  sake."     "My  son  I — ray 

son," 


JZS  BOY  S    LAST   BSQ0EST. 

Murmured  the  mourner,  in  that  tender  tone 
Which  woman,  in  her  sternest  agony 
Commands,   to  soothe  the   pang  of  those  sh« 

loves, 
"The  soul!  the  soul!— to  whose  chaige  yield 

you  that  ?" 
"  Mother, — to  God  who  gave  it." 

So,  that  soul 

With  a  slight  shudder  and  a  lingering  smile 
pale  clay  for  its  Creator's  arms. 


129 


"HINDER  THEM  NOT." 


"*  *  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  an  j  for, 
bid  them  not.'  But  you  hinder  them  by  your  exam 
ple,  and  by  not  encouraging  thorn.  Their  coursa 
ought  to  be  upward  : — do  not  hinder  them." 

REV    MR.  TAYLOR,  of  the  Seamen's  Chapel,  Boston, 


LOCK'D  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth 

The  little  seed  its  heart  doth  stir, 
And  quickening  for  its  mystic  birth, 

Burst    from  its  cleaving  sepulchre, 
The  aspiring  head,  the  unfolding  leaf, 

Exulting  in  their  joyous  lot, 
Turn  grateful  towards  the  Eye  of  Day, 

Hinder  them  not. 

Thus,  do  the  buds  of  being  rise 

From  cradle-dreams,  like  snow-drop  meek, 
While  through  their  mind-illumin'd  eyes 

A  deathless  principle  doth  speak, 
9 


130  "HINDER  THEM  NOT." 

Already  toward  a  brighter  sphere 

They  turn,  from  this  lerresirial  spot,— » 

Fond  parents  ! — florists  kind  and  dear ! 
Hinder  them  not. 

Hinder  them  not ! — even  Love  may  spare 

In  blindness  many  a  wayward  she.  t, — 
Or  weakly  let  the  usurping  tare 

Divert  the  health-stream  from  their  root, 
Oh  !  by  that  negligence  supine, 

Which  oft  the  fairest  page  doth  blot, 
And  shroud  the  ray  of  light  divine. 

Hinder  them  not. 

Cold  world  ! — the  teachings  of  thy  guile 

Awhile  from  these  young  hearts  restrain  - 
Oh  spare  that  unsuspicious  smile 

Which  never  must  return  again ; 
By  folly's  wile,  by  falsehood's  kiss 

Too  soon  acquir'd,  too  late  forgot, 
By  sins  that  shut  the  soul  from  bliss, 

Hinder  them  not. 


131 


MORAVIAN  MISSIONS  TO  GREEN 

LAND. 


Witr  steers  yon  bold  adventurous  prow 

On  toward  the  arctic  zone, 
Defying  blasts  that  rudely  seal 

To  Ocean's  breast  like  stone  ? 
Why  dare  her  crew  those  fearful  seas 

Where  icy  mountains  dash, 
And  make  the  proudest  ship  a  wreck 

Writh  one  tremendous  crash  ? 

They  come,  who  seek  the  spirit's  gold 

They  dare  yon  dreary  sphere, 
And  winter  startles  on  his  throne, 

Their  strain  of  praise  to  hear  : 
They  come,  Salvation's  lamp  to  light 

Where  frost  and  darkness  reign, 
And  with  a  deathles  joy  to  cheer 

The  sons  of  want  and  pain. 

And  lo !  the  chapel  rears  its  head 
Beneatl.  those  stranger- skies, 


132      MORAlftAN   MISSIONS   TO    GREENLAND. 

And  to f  he  sweet-ton'd  Sabbath-bell 

The  thick-ribb'd  ice  replies. 
The  unletter'd  EsquinJ^ux  doth  pluck 

The  victory  from  the  tomb, 
And  grateful  seek  that  glorious  clime 

Where  flowers  forever  bloom. 

When  the  last  tinge  of  green  departs, 

The  last  bird  takes  its  flight, 
And  the  far  sun  no  beam  bestows 

On  that  long  polar  night, 
When  in  her  subterranean  cell 

To  shun  the  tempest's  ire, 
Life  shrinking  guards  her  pallid  flame 

That  feebly  lifts  its  spire, 

The  teachers  of  a  love  divine, 

That  firm,  devoted  band, 
With  no  weak  sigh  of  fond  regret 

Recall  their  father-land, 
The  unchanging  smile  that  lights  their  broWj 

While  storms  of  Winter  roar, 
Doth  better  prove  their  heaven-born  Faith 

Than  Learning's  loftiest  lore. 


133 


PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 


COME  to  .he  hill  of  Mars — for  he  is  there 
That   wondrous    man   whose    eloquence   doth 

touch 
The  heart  like  living  flame.     With  brow  un- 

blanched 

And  eye  of  fearless  ardour,  he  confronts, 
That  high  tribunal  with  its  pen  of  flint, 
Whose  irreversible  decree,  made  pale 
The  Gentile  world.     All  Athens  gathers  near, 
Fickle,  and  warm  of  heart,  and  fond  of  change 
And  full  of  strangers,  and  of  those  who  pass 
Life  in  the  idle  toil  to  hear,  or  tell, 
Of  some  new  thing.     See,  thither  throng  the 

bands 

Of  Epicurus,  wrapt  in  gorgeous  robe, 
Who  seem  with  bright  and  eager  eyes  to  ask 
"What  will  this  babbler  say  ?"-—  With  front 

austere, 

Stand  a  dark  group  of  Stoics,  sternly  proud — 
And  predetermined  to  confute  ;  yet  still 
'Keath  the  deep  wrinkles  of  their  settled  brow 


13*  PAUL  AT. ATHENS. 

Lurks  some  unwonted  gathering  of  their  powers 
As  for  no  common  foe.     With  angry  frown 
Stalk  the  fierce  Cynics,  anxious  to  condemn, 
And  prompt  to  punish,  while  the  patient  sons 
Of  gentle  Plato  bow  the  listening  soul 
To  search  for  wisdom,  and  with  reason's  art 
Build  the  fair  argument.     Behold  the  throngs 
Press  on  the  speaker,  drawing  still  more  close 
In  denser  circles,  as  his  thrilling  tones 
Teach  of  the  God  who  "  warneth  everywhere 
Men  to  repent,"  and  of  that  fearful  day 
When  He  shall  judge  the  world.     Loud  tumult 

wakes, 

The  tide  of  strong  emotion  hoarsely  swells, 
And  that  blest  voice  is    silent.      They  ha've 

mocked 

At  Heaven's  high  messenger,  and  he  departs 
From  the  mad  circle.     But  his  graceful  laand 
Points  to  an  altar,  with  its  mystic  scroll — 
"  The  Unknown  God." — Oh!  Athens!  is  it  sot 
Thou  who  hast  crowned  thyself  with  woven 

rays 

As  a  divinity,  and  called  the  world. 
Thy  pilgrim-worshipper,  dost  thou  confess 
Such  ignorance  and  shame  ? 

The  Unknown  God ! 

Why,  all  thy  hillocks  and  resounding  streams 
Do  boast  their  deity,  and  every  house, 
Yea.  every  beating  heart  within  thy  walls, 
May  choose  its  temple  and  its  priestly  train, 


PAUL  AT   ATHENS.  133 

Victim  and  garland,  and  appointed  rite; 

Thou  makest  the  gods  of  every  realm  thine  own, 

Fostering,  with  frantic  hospitality, 

All  forms  of  idol-worship.     Can  i.  be 

That  still  thou  found'st  not  Him  who  is  so  near 

To  every  one  of  us,  in  "  whom  we  live, 

And  move,  and  have  our  being?"     Found  not 

Him 
Of  whom  thy  poets  spake  with  childlike  awe  ? 

And  thou,  philosophy,  whose  art,  refined, 
Did  aim  to  pierce  the  labyrinth  of  fate, 
And  compass  with  a  fine-spun  sophist  web 
This  mighty  universe — didst  thou  fall  short 
Of  the  Upholding  Cause  ?— 

The  Unknown  God  ? 
Thou  who  didst   smile   to  find   the   admiring 

world 

Crouch  as  a  pupil  to  thee,  wert  thou  blind? — 
Blinder  than  he  who,  in  his  humble  cot, 
With  hardened  hand,  his  daily  labour  done, 
Turneth  the  page  of  Jesus  and  doth  read, 
With  toil,  perchance,  that  the  trim  schoolboy 

scorns, 

Counting  him,  in  his  arrogance,  a  fool  ? 
yet  shall  the  poor,  wayfaring  man  lie  down 
With  such  a  hope  as  thou  could' st  never  teach 
Thy  king-like  sages — yea,  a  hope  that  plucks 
The  sting  from  death,  the  victory  from  the  grave 


136 


THE  MUFFLED  KNOCKER. 


Grief!    'tis  thy  symbol,  so  mute  and 
drear, 

Yet  it  hath  a  tale  for  the  listening  ear, 
Of  the  nurse's  care,  and  the  cunain'd  bed, 
Of  the  baffled  healer's  cautious  tread  ; 
And  the  midnight  lamp,  with  its  flickering  ligh 
Half  screen'd  from  the  restless  sufferer's  sight ; 
Yes,  many  a  sable  scene  of  woe, 
Doth  that  muffled  knocker's  tablet  show. 

Pain  !  Pain  !  art  thou  wrestling  here  with  man  ; 
For  the  broken  sold  of  his  wasted  span  ? 
Art  thou  straining  thy  rack  on  his  tortur'd  nerve 
Till  his  firmest  hopes  from  their  anchor  swerve  ? 
Till  burning  tears  from  his  eye-balls  flow, 
And  his  manhood  faints  in  a  shriek  of  woe  ? 
Methinks,  thy  scorpion-sting  I  trace, 
Through  the  mist  of  that  sullen  knocker's  face. 

Death !    Death !    do  I  see  thee  with  weapop 

dread, 
Art  thou  laying  thy  hand  or.  yon  cradle  bed  ? 


TUB  MUFFLED  KNOCKER.         737 

The  mother  is  there,  with  her  sleepless  eye, 
To  dispute  each  step  of  thy  victory. 
She  doth  fold  the  child  in  her  soul's  embrace, 
Her  prayer  is,  to  die  in  her  idol's  place. 
She  hath  bared  her  breast  to  thine  arrow's  sway, 
But  thou  will  not  be  bribed  from   that  babe 
away. 

Earth!  Earth1  thou  hast  stamp' d  on  thy  scroll 

of  bliss 

The  faithless  seal  of  a  traitor's  kiss, 
Where  the  bridal  lamp  gleam' d  clear  and  bright, 
And  thn  foot  through  the  maze  of  the  dance  was 

light, 

Thou  biddest  the  black-robed  weeper  kneel, 
And  the  heavy  hearse  roll  its  lumbering  wheel; 
And  still  to  the  heart  that  will  heed  its  lore, 
Doe;?  Wisdon  speak  from  yon  muffled  door. 


CHANGES. 


THE  vines  are  wither'd,  0,  my  love, 

That  erst  we  taught  to  tower, 
And  in  a  mesh  of  fragrance  wove, 

Around  our  summer-bower. 

The  ivy  on  the  ancient  wall 

Doth  in  its  budding  fade  ; 
The  stream  is  dry,  whose  gentle  fali 

A  lulling  murmur  made. 

The  tangled  weeds  have  chok'd  the  flowen 

The  trees,  so  lately  bright, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  vernal  hours 

Reveal  a  blackening  blight ; 

There  is  a  sigh  upon  the  gale 

That  doth  the  willow  sway, 
A  murmur  from  the  blossoms  pale, 

"  Arise,  and  come  away." 

So,  when  this  life  in  clouds  shall  hide 
Its  garland  fair  and  brief, 


And  every  promise  ot  its  pndo 
Must  wear  the  frosted  leat ; 

Then  may  the  undying  soul  attain 

That  heritage  sublime, 
Where  comes  no  pang  of  parting  pais. 

Nor  change  of  hoary  tica». 


ON    READING   THE   MEMOIRS    OF 
MRS.  JUDSON. 


I  SAW  her  on  the  strand.     Beside  her  smil  i 
The  land  of  birth,  and  the  beloved  home, 
"With  all  their  pageantry  of  tint  and  shade, 
Streamlet  and  vale. 

There  stood  her  childhood's  friends, 
Sweet  sisters,  who  her  inmost   thoughts   had 

shar'd, 

And  saint-like  parents,  whose  example  rais'd 
Those  thoughts   to  heaven.     It  was  a  strong 

array, 

And  the  fond  heart  clung  to  its  rioted  loves. 
But  Christ  had  given  a  panoply,  which  earth 
Might  never  take  away.  And  so  she  turn'd 
To  boisterous  ocean,  and  with  cheerful  step, 
Though  moisten'd  eye,  forsook  the  cherish'd 

clime 
Whose  halcyon  bowers  had  rear'd  her  joyoua 

youth. 

—I  look'd  again.     It  was  a  foreign  shore. 
The  tropic  sun  had  laid  his  burning  brow 


MRS.   JJDSO^.  14| 

On  twilight's  lap.     A  gorgeous  palaje  caught 
His  last  red  ray.     Hoarsely  the  idol-song 
To  Boodh  mingled  with  the  breeze  that  curl'd 
Broad  Irrawaddy's  tide.     Why  do  ye  point 
To  yon  low  prison  ?     Who  is  he  that  gropes 
Amid  its  darkness,  with  those  fetter'd  limbs? 
Mad  Pagans  !  do  ye  thus  requite  the  man 
Who  toils  for  your  salvation  ? 

See  that  form 

Bending  in  tenderest  sympathy  to  soothe 
The  victim's  sorrow.     Tardy  months  pass  by, 
And  find  her  still  intrepid  at  the  post 
Of  danger  and  of  disappointed  hope. 
Stem  sickness  smote  het,  yet,  with  tireless  zeal, 
She  bore  the  hoarded  morsel  to  her  love, 
Dar'd  the  rude  arrogance  of  savage  power, 
To  plead  for  him,  and  bade  his  dungeon  glow, 
With  her  fair  brow,  as  erst  the  angel's  smile 
Arous'd  imprison'd  Peter,  when  his  hands, 
From  fetters  loos' d,  were  lifted  high  in  praise. 

-'-There  was  another  scene,   drawn  by  Ju 
lian  d 

Whose  icy  pencil  blotteth  out  the  grace 
And  loveliness  of  man.     The  keenest  shaft 
Of  anguish  quivers  in  that  martyr's  breast, 
Who  is  about  to  wash  her  garments  white 
In  a  Redeemer's  blood,  and  glorious  rise 
From  earthly  sorrows  to  a  clime  of  rest. 
— Dark  Burman  faces  are  around  her  bed, 


142  MK 

And  one  pale  babe  is  there,  for  whom  she  checki 
The  death-groan,  clasping  it  in  close  embrace, 
Even  till  the  heart-strings  break. 

Behold  he  comes 

The  wearied  man  of  God  from  distant  toil. 
His  home,  while  yet  a  misty  speck  it  seems, 
His  straining  eye  detects,  but  marks  no  form 
Of  his  most  lov'd  one,  hasting  down  the  vale 
As  wont,  to  meet  him. 

Say,  what  heathen  lip 

In  its  strange  accents  told  him,  that  on  earth 
Nought  now  remain' d  to  heal  his  wounded  heart, 
Save  that  lone  famish' d  infant  ?     Days  of  care, 
Were  meted  to  him,  and  long  nights  of  grief 
Weigh'd  out,  and  then  that  little,  wailing  one, 
Went  to  her  mother's  bosom,  and  slept  sweet 
'JXeath  the  cool  branches  of  the  hopia-tree.  • 
'Twas  bitterness  to  think  that  bird-like  voice, 
Which  sang  sweet  hymns  to  please  a  father'l 

ear,  • 
Must  breathe  no  more. 

This  is  to  be  alone, 
Alone  in  this  wide  world. 

Yet  not  without 

A  comforter.     For  the  true  heart  that  trusts 
Its  all  to  Heaven,  and  sees  its  treasur'd  things 
Unfold  their  hidden  wing,  and  thither  soar, 
Doth  fmd  i'self  drawn  upward  in  their  ilight. 


143 


TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  REV.  DR.  CORNELIUS. 


"All  ye  that  were  about  him,  bemoan  him,  and 
al.  ye  that  know  his  name,  say,  how  is  the  strong 
BtaiF  broken,— and  the  beautiful  rod  V— THE  Puo- 
fiiET  JEKEMIAU. 


AND  can  it  be,— and  can  it  be,  that  thou  art  on 
thy  bier  ? 

But  yesterday  in  all  the  prime  of  life's  unspenl 
career ! 

I've  seen  the  iorest's  noblest  tree  laid  low,  when 
lightnings  shine, 

The  column  in  its  majesty  torn  from  the  temple- 
shrine, 

Yet  little  deem'd  that  ice  so  soon  would  check 
thy  vital  stream, 

Or  the  sun  that  soar'd  without  a  cloud  thus  v?il 
its  noon  day  beam. 


144     TRIBUTE  10   THE  REV.  DR.  CORNELIUS. 

I've  seen  thee  in  thy  glory  stand,  while  alj 
around  was  hush'd, 

And  seraph-wisdom  from  thy  lips  in  tones  oi 
music  gush'd, 

For  thou  with  willing  hand  didst  lay,  at  morn 
ing's  dewy  hour, 

Upon  the  altar  of  thy  God  thy  beauty  and  thy 
power, 

Thou,  for  the  helpless  sons  of  woe,  didst  pleaa 
with  words  of  flame, 

And  boldly  strike  the  rocky  heart  in  thy  Re 
deemer's  name. 

And,  lo!  that  withering  race  who  fade  as  dew 

'neath  summer's  ray, 
Who,  like  uprooted  weeds,  are  cast  from  their 

own  earth  away, 
Who  trusted  to  a  nation's  vow,  yet  found  that 

faith  was  vain, 
And  to  their  fathers'  sepulchres  return  no  more 

again  ; 
They  need  thy  blended  eloquence  of  lip,  and 

eye,  and  brow, 
They  need  the  righteous  for  a  shield ;  why  art 

thou  abse?it  now  ? 

Long  shall  thine  image  freshly  dwell  beside  theii 

native  streams, 
And,  'inid  their  wanderings  far  and  wide,  illume 

their  alien  dreams, 


TRIBUTE  TO  TUE  REV.  DR.  CORNELIUS.     143 

For  Heaven  to  their  sequester'd  haunts  thine 

early  steps  did  guide, 
And  the  Cherokee  hath  heard  thy  prayer  his 

cabin-hearth  besidu, 
The  Osage  orphan  saaiy  breath'd  her  sorrows 

to  mine  ear, 
And  the  stern  warrior  knelt   him  down  with 

strange  repentant  tear. 

I  see  a  consecrated  throng  of  youthful  watchmen 
rise. 

Each  girding  on  for  Zion's  sake  their  heaven- 
wrought  panoplies ; 

These,  in  their  solitudes  obscure,  thy  generous 
ardour  souptit. 

And  gathering  with  a  tireless  hand,  up  to  the 
temple  brougnt, 

These,  while  the  altar  of  their  God  they  serve 
with  hallow'd  zeai, 

Shall  wear  thy  memory  on  their  heart,  an  ever 
lasting  seai. 

I  hear  a  voice  of  wailing  from  the  islands  of  the 

sea. 
Salvation's  distant  heralds  mourn  on  heathen 

shores  for  tnee ; 
Thy  constant  love,  like  Gilead's  balm  refresh'd 

their  weary  rnina, 
And  with  the  blessed  Evart's  name  thine  own 

was  strong  y  twinM, 
Hi 


146     TRIBUTE  TO  THE  KEV.  DR.  CORNELIUS. 

But  thou,  from  this  illusive  scene,  hast  like  & 

vision  fled, 
Just  wrapp'd  his  mantle  o'er  thy  breast,  then 

join'd  him  with  the  dead. 

Farewell !  we  yield  thee  to  the  tomb,  with  many 

a  bitter  tear, 
Tho'  'twas  not  meet  a  soul  like  thine  should 

longer  tarry  here, 
Fond,  clustering  hopes  have  sunk  with  thee, 

that  earth  can  ne'er  restore, 
Love  casts  a  garland  on  thy  turf,  that  may  not 

blossom  more  ; 
But  thou  art  where  each  dream  of  hope  shall  in 

fruition  fade, 
And  love,  immortal  and  refill' d,  glow  on  with 

out  a  shade. 


117 


CHARITY  HYMN, 


WIDOW  !  long  cstrang'd  from  gladnest, 

In  thy  cell  so  lonely  made, 
Where  chill  Penury's  cloud  of  sadness 

Adds  to  grief  a  sterner  shade, 
Look  !  the  searching  eye  hath  found  the®, 

Pitying  hearts  confess  thy  claim, 
Bounteous  spirits  shed  around  thee 

Blessings  in  a  Saviour's  name. 

Orphan  !  in  dependence  weeping, 

Crush'd  by  want  and  misery  dire, 
Or  on  lowly  pallet  sleeping, 

Dreaming  of  thy  buried  sire, 
Hands  like  his,  combine  to  rear  thee, 

Stranger-arms  are  round  thee  cast, 
And  a  Father  ever  near  thee, 

Fits  the  shorn  lamb  to  the  blast. 

Brethren  !  by  the  precious  token 
Which  the  sons  of  mercy  wear, 

By  the  vows  we  here  have  spoken, 
Grav'd  in  truth,  and  seal'd  with  prayer, 


48  CHARIIT  nrio. 

Penury's  pathway  we  will  brigh.ei), 
Misery  wilh  compassion  meet, 

And  the  heart  of  sorrow  lighten, 
Till  our  own  shall  cease  to  beat. 


149 


PICTURE  OF  A  SLEEPING  INFANT 
WATCHED  BY  A  DOG. 


S  WEET  are  thy  slumbers,  baby.     Gentle  gales 
Do  lift  the  curtaining  foliage  o'er  thy  head, 
And  nested  birds  sing  lullaby  ;  and  flowers 
That  form  the  living  broidery  of  thy  couch 
Shed  fresh  perfume. 

He,  too,  whose  guardian  eye 
Pondereth  thy  features  with  such  true  delight, 
And  faithful  semblance  of  parental  care, 
Counting  his  master's  darling  as  his  own> 
Should  aught  upon  thy  helpless  rest  intrude, 
Would  show  a  lion's  wrath. 

And  when  she  comeSf 
Thy  peasant-mother,  from  her  weary  toil, 
Thy  shout  will  cheer  her,  and  thy  little  arms 
Entwine  her  sunburnt  neck,  with  joy  as  full 
As  infancy  can  feel.     They  who  recline  _ 
In  luxury's  proud  cradle,  lulled  with  strains 
Of  warbling  lute,  and  watched  by  hireling  eyes, 
And  wrapt  in  golden  tissue,  share,  perchance, 
No  sleep  so  sweet  as  thine. 


150         PICTURE   OF  A  SLEEPING  INl'ANT. 

Is  it  not  thug 

With  us,  the  larger  children?     Gorgeous  robes, 
And  all  the  proud  appliances  of  wealth, 
Touch  not  the  heart's  content ;  but  he  is  blest, 
Though  clad  in  humble  garb,   \vho  peaceful 

greets 
The  smile  of  nature,  with  a  soul  of  love. 


131 


ON  RETURNING  FROM  CHURCH. 


THE  listening  ear  the  hallo w'd  strain 
Has  caught  from  lips  devoutly  wise, 

But  what  my  heart  has  been  thy  gain 
From  all  these  precepts  of  the  skies  ? 

Contrition's  lesson  have  they  taught  ? 

The  oft-forgotten  vow  renew'd? 
Or  gently  touch' d  thy  glowing  thought 

With  the  blest  warmth  of  gratitude  ? 

Say,  from  the  low  delights  of  time 
Thy  best  affections  have  they  won? 

Inciting  thee  with  zeal  sublime 
Earth's  fleeting  pilgrimage  to  run? 

If  not,  how  vain  the  band  to  join 

Who  toward  the  house  of  God  repair, 

To  pour  the  song  of  praise  divine 
Or  kneel  in  phara'saic  prayer  ; 

And  ah !  how  vain  when  Death's  cold  hand 
Shall  sternly  reap  time's  ripen' d  field, 

How  worse  than  vain  when  all  must  stand 
The  last  the  dread  account  to  yield. 


!53 


THE  BAPTISM. 


near  the  close  of  that  blest  dsy,  when, 

with  melodious  swell, 
To  crowded  mart  and  lonely  vale,  had  spoke 

the  sabbath  bell. 
While  on  a  broad,  unruffled  stream,  with  fringed 

verdure  bright, 
The  westering  sunbeam  richly  shed  a  tinge  of 

crimson  light. 

When,  lo  !  a  solemn  train  appeared,  by  their 

loved  pastor  led, 
And  sweetly  rose  the  holy  hymn,  as  toward  that 

stream  they  spea  ; 
And  he  its  cleaving,  crystal  breast,  with  graceful 

movement  trod. 
His  steadfast  eye  upraised,  to  seek  communion 

with  its  God. 

Then,  bending  o'er  his  staff,  approached  that 

willow-shaded  shore, 
A  man  of  many  weary  years,  with  furrowed 

temples  hoir; 


THE   BAPTISM.  153 

And  faintly  breathed  his  trembling  fi-p — "  Be 
hold,  I  fain  would  be 

Buried  in  baptism  with  my  Lord,  ere  death  should 
summon  me." 

With  brow  benign,  like  Him  whose  hand  did 

wavering  Peter  guide, 
The  pastor  bore  his  tottering  frame  through  that 

translucent  tide, 
And  plunged  him  'neath  the  shrouding  wave, 

and  spake  the  Triune  name, 
And  joy  upon  that  withered  face,  in  wondering 

radiance  came. 

And  then  advanced  a  lordly  form,  in  manhood's 
towering  pride, 

Who  from  the  gilded  snares  of  earth  had  wisely 
turned  aside, 

And,  following  in  His  steps  who  bowed  to  Jor 
dan's  startled  wave, 

In  deep  humility  of  soul,  this  faithful  witness 
gave. 

Who  next  ? — A  fair  and  fragile  form,  in  snowy 

robe  doth  move, 
That  tender  beauty  in  her  eye  that  wakes  the 

vow  of  love — 
Yea  fnme,  thou  gentle  one,  and  arm  thy  soul 

with  strength  divine, 
This  stern  world  hath  a  thousand  darts  to  vex  a 

breast  like  thiie. 


154  THE  BAPTISM. 

Beneath  its  smile  a  traitor's  kiss  is  oft  in  dark 
ness  bound — 

Cling  to  that  Comforter  who  holds  a  balm  foi 
every  wound ; 

Propitiate  that  Protector's  care  who  never  wilJ 
forsake, 

And  thou  shall  strike  the  harp  of  praise,  even 
when  thy  heart-strings  break. 

Then,  with  a  firm,  unshrinking  step,  the  watery 

path  she  trod, 
And  gave,  with  woman's  deathless  trust,  her 

being  to  her  God  ; 
And  when  all  drooping  from  the  flood  she  rose, 

like  lily-stem, 
Methought  that  spotless  brow  might  wear  an 

angel's  diadem. 

Yet  more  !  Yet  more  ! — How  meek  they  bow 
to  their  Redeemer's  rite, 

Then  pass  with  music  on  their  way,  like  joyous 
sons  of  light ; 

Yet  lingering  on  those  shores  I  staid,  till  every 
sound  was  hush'd, 

For  hallo w'd  musings  o'er  my  soul,  like  spring- 
swollen  rivers  rush'  d. 

Tis  better,  said   the  voice  within,  to  bear  a 

Christian's  cross, 

Than  sell  this  fleeting  life  for  gold,  which  death 
shall  prove  but  dross. 


THB  BAPTISM.  155 

f^ar  betler  when  yon  shrivell'd  skies  are  like  a 

banner  furl'd, 
To  ehare  in  Christ's  reproach,  than  gain  th* 

<jiory  of  the  world. 


DEATH  OF  THE  WIFE  OF  A 
CLERGYMAN 

PUKING   THE   SICKNESS    OF   HER    HUSBAND. 


DARK  sorrow  brooded  o'er  the  pastor's  home, 
The  prayer  was  silent,  and  the  loving  group 
That  sang  their  hymn  of  praise  at  even  ah<j| 

morn 

Now  droop'd  in  pain, — or  with  a  noiseless  step 
Tended  the  sick.     It  was  a  time  of  woe  : 
Days  measur'd  out  in  anguish,  and  drear  nights 
Mocking  the  eye  that  waited  for  the  dawn. 

They  who  from  youth,  by  hallo w'd  vows  con 

join'd, 

Had  borne  life's  burdens  with  united  arm, 
And,  side  by  side,  its  adverse  fortunes  foil'd 
Apart, — an  agonizing  warfare  wag'd 
With  nature's  stern  destroyer.     Tidings  pass'd 
From  couch  to  couch, — how  stood  the  doubtful 

strife 
Twixt  life  and  dea'a.  They  might  not  lay  their 

hand 


DEATH  OF  THE  W1TE  OF  A  CLERGYMAN.     1ST 

Upon  each  other's  throbbing  brow, — or  breathe 
The  words  of  comfort,  for  disease  had  set 
A  gulf  between  them. 

Hark !  what  sound  appall' a 
The  suffering  husband?     'Twas  a  mourner's 

sob 
Beside  his  bed. 

"  My  mother  will  not  speak.-— 
They  say  she's  dead." — 

,m  Art  thou  the  messenger, 

Poor,    pallid   boy,    that   the   dear    love   which 

sooth' d 

The  cradle-moan, and  on  thro'  all  thy  life 
Would  still  have  clung  to  thee,  untir'd,    un- 

chang'd, — 

Is  blotted  out  for  ever  ? — Thou  dost  tell 
A  loss  thou  can'st  not  measure. 

She, — the  friend, — 

The  motner,  imag'd  in  those  daughters'  hearts 
First, — dearest, — best-belov'd, — who   joy'd   to 

walk 

The  meek  companion  of  a  man  of  God, — 
Hath  given  her  hand  to  that  destroyer's  grasp 
Who  rifle th  the  clay-cottage, — sending  forth 
The  immortal  habitant.     Fearless,  she  laid 
Earth's  vestments  by. 

And  thou,  whose  tenderest  trust 
With  an  uTiwontcd  confidence  was  seal'd 
In  that  colu  breast  so  long,— lift  up  thy  soul.  _ 
'  She  is  not  here, — but  risen!" — Shew  the  faith 


4 58     DEATH  OF  THE  WIFE  OF  A  CLERGYMA1C. 

Which  thou  hast  preach' d  to  others, — by  ita 

power 

In  the  dark  night  of  trouble.   Take  the  cross,— 
And  from  thy  stricken  heart  pour  freshly  forth 
The  spirit  of  thy  Lord, — teaching  thy  flock 
To  luarn  Jehovah's  lessons, — and  be  still. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN, 


THOU  who,  once  an  infant  stranger, 
Honour' d  this  auspicious  morn, 

Thou  who,  in  Judea's  manger, 
Wert  this  day  of  woman  born. 

Thou  whom  wondering  sages  offer' d 
Costly  gifts,  and  incense  sweet, 

Take  our  homage,  humbly  proffer' d, 
Grateful  kneeling  at  thy  feet. 

Thou  whose  path  a  star  of  glory 

Gladly  hasted  to  reveal 
Herald  of  salvation's  story, 

Touch  our  hearts  with  equal  zeals 

jThou  at  whose  approach  was  given 
I     Welcome  from  the  angels'  lyre, 
.  Teach  our  souls  the  song  of  heaven, 
Ere  we  join  their  tuneful  choir. 


1(4 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  GORDON  HALL 


THE  healer  droops, — no  more  his  skill 

May  ease  the  sufferer's  moan, — 
The  hand  that  sooth'd  another's  pang 

Sinks  powerless  'neath  its  own  ; 
The  teacher  dies  ; — he  came  to  plant 

Deep  in  a  heathen  soil, 
The  germ  of  everlasting  life, 

He  faints  amid  the  toil. 

There  was  a  vision  of  the  Sea, 

That  pain'd  his  dying  strife, 
Why  stole  that  vision  o'er  his  soul 

Thus  'mid  the  wreck  of  life  ? 
A  form,  by  holiest  love  endear'd, 

There  rode  the  billowy  crest, 
And  tenderly  his  pallid  boys 

Were  folded  to  her  breast. 

Then  rose  the  long  remember'd  scenes 

Of  his  far,  native  bowers, 
The  white-spir'd  church,  the  mother's  hynas 

And  boyhood's  clustering  flowers, 


DEATH  OF  THE  REV.  GOK00N  HALL.        ]61 

And  strong  tliat  country  of  his  heart, 

The  green  and  glorious  West, 
Shar'd  in  the  parting  throb  of  love 

That  shook  the  dying  breast. 

Brief  was  the  thought,  the  dream,  the  pang, 

For  high  Devotion  came, 
And  brought  the  martyr's  speechless  joy, 

And  wing'd  the  prayer  of  flame, 
And  stamp' d  upon  the  marble  face 

Heaven's  smile  serenely  sweet, 
And  bade  the  icy,  quivering  lip 

The  praise  of  God  repeat. 

Strange,  olive  brows  with  tears  were  wet, 

As  a  lone  grave  was  made, 
And  there,  'mid  Asia's  arid  sands 

Salvation's  herald  laid, 
But  bright  that  shroudless  clay  shall  biirft 

From  its  uncoffin'd  bed, 
When  the  Archangel's  awful  trump 

Convenes  the  righteous  dead. 


162 


TOMB  3F  ABSALOM. 


Is  this  thy  tomb,  amid  the  mournful  shades 

Of  the  deep  valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 

Thou  son  of  David  ?     Kidron's  gentle  brook 

Is  murmuring  near,  as  if  it  fain  would  tell 

Thy  varied  history.     Methinks  I  see 

Thy  graceful  form,  thy  smile,  thy  sparkling  eye, 

The  glorious  beauty  of  thy  flowing  hair, 

And  that  bright  eloquent  lip  whose  cunning  stole 

The  hearts  of  all  the  people.     Didst  thou  waste 

The  untold  treasures  of  integrity, 

The  gold  of  conscience,  for  their  light  applause, 

Thou  fair  dissembler  ? 

Say,  rememberest  thou 
When  o'er  yon  flinty  steep  of  Olive1 
A  sorrowing  train  went  up?    Datlv 

seers. 

Denouncing  judgment  on  a  rebel  prince, 
Pass'd  sadly  on ;  and  next  a  crownless  king, 
Walking  in  sad  and  humbled  majesty, 
While  hoary  statesmen  bent  upon  his  brow 
Indignant  looks  of  tearful  sympathy, — 
What  caused  the  weeping  there  ? 


TOMB   OF   A3SALOM.  163 

Thou  heard'st  it  not ; 
For  thou  within  ihe  city's  walls  didst  hold 
Thy  revel,  brief  arid  base.     And  could' st  thou 
The  embattled  host  against  thy  father's  life, 
The  king  of  Israel,  arid  the  lov'd  of  God  ? 
He,  'mid  the  evils  of  his  changeful  lot, 
Saul's  moody  hatred,  stern  Philistia's  spear, 
His  alien  wanderings,  and  his  warrior  toil, 
Found  nought  so  bitter  as  the  rankling  thorn 
Set,  by  thy  madness  of  ingratitude, 
Deep  in  his  yearning  soul. 

What  were  thy  thoughts 

When  in  the  mesh  of  thine  own  tresses  snared 
Amid  the  oak  whose  quiet  verdure  mocked 
Thy  nisery  ?     Wert  thou  forsook  by  all 
Who  shared   thy   meteor-greatness,   and  con 
strained 

To  loam,  in  that  strange  solitude  of  agony, 
A   traitor  hath  no  friends  ? — What  were   thy 

thoughts 

When  death,  careering  on  the  triple  dart 
Of  vengeful  Joab,  found  thee?     To  thy  God 
Rose  there  one  cry  of  penitence,  one  prayer 
For  that  unmeasured  mercy  which  can  cleanse 
Unbounded  guilt  ?  Or  turned  thy  stricken  heart 
Toward  him  who  o'er  thy  infant  graces  watched 
With  tender  pride,  and  all  thy  sins  of  youth 
In  blindfold  fondness  pardoned  ? 

Hark  ! — the  breeza 
That  sweeps  the  palm-groves  of  Jerusalem 


264  TOMB  OF   ABSALOM. 

Bears  the  continuous  wail,  "  O  Absalom  !•— 
My  son !-  my  son  !" — 

We  turn  us  from  thy  tomb,— 
Usurping  prince  ! — thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 
Have  perish' d  with  thee  ! — but  thy  fame  sur 
vives, — 
The  ingrate  son  that  pierc'd  a  father's  heart. 


DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  LADY  AT  THE 
RETREAT  FOR  THE  INSANE. 


YOUTH  glows  upon  her  blossom'd  cheek, 

Glad  beauty  in  her  eye, 
And  fond  affections  pure  and  meek 

Her  every  want  supply  : 
Why  doth  her  glance  so  wildly  rove 

Some  fancied  foe  to  find  ? 
What  dark  dregs  stir  her  cup  of  love  ? 

Go  ask  the  sickening  mind  ! 

They  bear  her  where  with  cheering  smile 

The  hope  of  healing  reigns 
For  those  whom  morbid  Fancy's  wile 

In  torturing  bond  constrains  ; 
Where  Mercy  spreads  an  angel-wing 

To  do  her  Father's  will, 
And  heaven-instructed,  plucks  the  eting 

From  earth's  severest  ill. 

Yet  o'er  that  sufferer's  drooping  head 
No  balm  of  Gilead  stole. 


166  DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG  L.1DY. 

Discard  Imagination  spread 

Dark  chaos  o'er  the  soul ; 
Tho'  recollected  truths  sublime 

Still  fed  Devotion's  stream, 
And  beings  from  a  sinless  clime 

Blent  with  her  broken  dream. 

Then  came  a  coffin  and  a  shroud, 

And  many  a  bursting  sigh 
With  shrieks  of  laughter  long  and  ljudv 

From  those  who  knew  not  why  ; 
For  she,  whom  Reason's  fickle  ray 

Oft  wilder 'd  and  distress' d 
Hush'd  in  unwonted  slumber  lay, 

A  cold  and  dreamless  rest. 

Think  ye  of  Heaven !  how  glorious  Iright 

Will  break  its  vision  clear, 
On  souls  that  rose  from  earthly  night 

All  desolate  and  drear ; 
So  ye  who  laid  that  stricken  form 

Down  to  its  willing  sleep, 
Snatch' d  like  a  flowret  from  the  storm, 

Weep  not  as  others  weep. 


167 


THE  TOWER  AT  MONTEVIDEO. 


Written  after  visiting  the  beautiful  sumirerresi* 
rtence  of  DANIEL  WADSWORTH,  Esq.,  on  Talcot 
mountain,  near  Hartford,  Conn.,  which  bears  tka 
name  of  Montevideo. 


FULL  many  a  year  hath  past  away, 
Thou  rude,  old  Tower,  so  stern  and  grey, 
Since  first  I  came,  enthusiast  lone, 
To  worship  at  thy  hermit  throne. 
— Tho'  wintry  blast,  and  sweeping  rain 
Have  mark'd  thee  with  their  iron  stain, 
Yet  freely  springing  at  thy  feet,     . 
New  beauties  wreathe  their  garland  sweet. 
Young  flowers  the  ancient  wilds  perfume, 
In  tangled  dells,  fresh  roses  bloom, 
And  foliage  wraps  with  mantle  deep. 
The  trap-rock  ledges  harsh  and  steep. 
— Still  spreads  the  lake  its  mirror  clear, 
The  forest-warblers  charm  the  ear, 
The  glorious  prospect  opens  wide 


IBS  TUE  TOWER   AT   MONTEVIDEO 

Its  varied  page  in  summer's  pride, 

And  tasteful  hands  have  deftly  wove 

Enchantment's  spell  o'er  vale  and  grove 

Farewell  old  Tower !  thou  still  shalt  be 

Remember'd  as  a  friend  by  me, 

Who  bring' st  from  time's  recorded  track 

The  buds  of  joy  profusely  back, 

And  sweetly  from  thy  turrets  hoar 

The  song  of  gratitude  dost  pour, 

Nor  spare  around  my  path  to  fling, 

Young  memory's  brightest  blossoming. 

• — When  next  we  meet,  perchance,,  the  trare 

Of  age  shall  tint  thy  tottering  base, 

And  I,  with  added  plainness  show 

The  wrinkled  lines  that  care  bestow; 

But  Nature  still  serene  and  fair, 

No  thread  of  silver  in  her  hair, 

No  furrow'd  mark  on  brow  or  cheek, 

The  same  rich  dialect  shall  speak, 

With  silent  finger  upward  pointing, 

And  forehead  pure  with  Heaven's  anohting 

And  smile  more  eloquent  than  speech, 

The  lessons  of  her  Sire  shall  teach. 


BIRTI1-DAY  VERSES  TO  A  LITTLE 
GIRL. 


I  DO  bethink  me  of  a  feeble  babe, 

To  whom  the  gift  of  life  did  seem  a  toil 

It  trembled  to  take  up,  and  of  the  care 

That  tireless  nurtur'd  her  by  night  and  day, 

When  it  would  seem  as  if  the  fainting  breath 

Must  leave  her  bosom,  and  her  fair  blue  eye 

Sank  'neath  its  lids,  like  some  crushed  violet. 

—Six  winters  came,  and  now  that  self-same  babe 

Wins  with  her  needle  the  appointed  length 

Of  her  light  task,  and  learns  with  patient  zeal 

The  daily  lesson,  tracing  on  her  map 

All  climes  and  regions  of  the  peopled  earth. 

With  tiny  hhiid,  she  guides  the  writer's  auill, 

To  grave  those  lines  through  which  the  soul 

doth  speak, 

And  pours  in  timid  tone?,  the  hymn  at  eve. 
She  from  the  pictur'd  page,  doth  scan  the  tribes 
That  revel  in  the  air,  or  cleave  the  flood, 
Or  roam  the  wild,  delighting  much  to  know 
Their  various  natures,  and  their  habit.*  all, 


170     BIRTH-DAY  VERSES  TO  A  LITTLE   GIRL. 

From  the  huge  elephant,  to  the  smal  fly 

That  liveth  but  a  day,  yet  in  that  day 

Is  happy,  and  outspreads  a  shining  wing, 

Exulting  in  the  mighty  Maker's  care. 

She  weeps  that  men  should  barb  the  monaick 

whale, 

In  his  wild  ocean-home,  and  wound  the  dove, 
And  snare  the  pigeon,  hasting  to  its  nest 
To  feed  its  young,  and  hunt  the  flying  deer, 
And  find  a  pleasure  in  the  pain  he  gives. 
She  tells  the  sweetly  modulated  tale 
To  her  young  brother,  and  devoutly  cheers 
At  early  morning,  seated  on  his  knee 
Her  hoary  grandsire  from  the  Book  of  God 
Who  meekly  happy  in  his  fourscore  years, 
Mourns  not  the  dimness  gathering  o'er  his  sight 
But  with  a  saintly  kindness,  bows  him  down 
To  drink  from  her  young  lip,  the  lore  he  loves. 
Fond,  gentle  child,   who  like  a  flower  that 

hastes 

To  burst  its  sheath,  hath  come  so  quickly  forth 
A  sweet  companion,  walkinsr  by  my  side, — 
Thou,  whom  thy  father  loveth,  and  thy  friends 
Delight  to  praise,  lift  thy  young  heart  to  God,— 
That  whatsoe'er  doth  please  him  in  thy  life 
He  may  perfect,  and  by  his  Spirit's  power 
Remove  oach  germ  of  evil,  that  thy  soul 
When  this  brief  discipline  of  time  is  o'er 
May  rise  to  praise  him  with  an  angel's  song. 


171 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  AGED. 


RISE  weary  spirit,  to  a  realm  of  rest ! 

Sorrow  hath  had  her  will  of  thee,  and  Pain, 
With  a  destroyer's  fury  prob'd  thy  breast, 

But  thou  the  victory  through  Christ  didst  gain  • 
Rise  free  from  stain. 

Years  wrote  their  history  on  thy  furrow' d  brow 
In  withering  lines ;    and  Time   like   ocean's 

foam 
Swept  o'er  the  shores  of  hope,  till  thou  didst 

know 

Earth's  emptiness.   But  now  no  more  to  roam 
Pass  to  thy  home. 

Blest  filial  Love  reserv'd  its  freshest  wreath 
Of  changeless  green  and  blooming  buds  foi 

thee. 

And  o'er  thy  bosom  threw  its  grateful  breath, 

When  the  waste  world  but  weeds  of  misery 

Spread  fcr  thine  eye. 


172  FAREWELL  TO  THB   A&8J). 

Take  up  the  triumph-song,  thou  who  didst  bow 
So  long  and  meekly  'neath  the  Chastener'a 

rod, 

Thou  whose  firm  faith  beheld  with  raptur'd  glow 
The  resurrection  cleave  the  burial-sod. 
Go  to  thv  God. 


173 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE.* 


WHEN  with  unclouded  ray 

Shines  the  bright  sun, 
When  summer  streamlets  play, 
And  all  around  is  gay, 
Then  shall  the  spirit  say, 

"  Thy  will  be  done  f" 

No.— When  the  flowers  of  love 

Fade,  one  by  one, 
When  in  its  bias  ted  grove 
The  shuddering  heart  doth  rov^ 
Then  say,  and  look  above, 

"  Tky  will  be  done:' 


174 


DEATH  OF  MRS.  H.  W.  L.  WINSLOW, 
MISSIONARY  IN  CEYLON. 


THY  name  hath  power  like  magic.    Back  it 

brings 

The  earliest  pictures  hung  in  memory's  halls, 
Tinting  them  freshly  o'er: — the  rugged  cliff, — 
The    towering    trees,  —  the    wintry    walk    to 

school, — 

The  page  so  often  conn'd, — the  hour  of  sport 
Well  earn'd  and  dearly  priz'd, — the  sparkling 

brook 

Making  its  slight  cascade, — the  darker  rush 
Of  the  pent  river  through  its  rocky  pass, — 
The  violet-gatherings  'mid  the  vernal  banks, — 
When   our  young  hearts  did  ope  their  crystal 

gates 
To  every  simple  joy.       .. 

rlittle  deem'd, 

'Mid  all  that  gay  and  gentle  fellowship, 
That  Asia's  sun  would  beam  upon  thy  grave, 
Tho',  even  then,  from  thy  dark,  serious  eye 
There  was  a  glancing  forth  of  glorious  thought, 


DEATH  OF  MRS.  H.  W.  I.  WINSLOVV.         175 

That  scorn' d  earth's  vanities.     I  saw  thee  stand 
With  but  a  few  brief  summers  o'er  thy  head, 
And  m  the  consecrated  courts  of  God 
Confess  thy  Saviour's  name.     And  they  who 

mark'd 

The  promise  of  that  opening  bud  did  ask 
What  its  full  bloom  must  be. 

But  now  thy  couch 

Is  where  the  Ceylon  mother  tells  her  child 
Of  all  thy  prayers  and  labours.     Yes,  thy  rest 
Is  in  the  bosom  of  that  fragrant  isle 
Where  heathen  man, with  lavish  Nature  strives 
To  blot  the  lesson  she  would  teach  of  God, 

Thy  pensive  sisters  pause  upon  thy  tomb 
To  catch  the  spirit  that  did  bear  thee  through 
All  tribulation,  till  thy  robes  were  white, 
To  join  the  angelic  train.     And  so  farewell. 
My  childhood's  playmate,  aud  my  sainted  friend, 
Whose  bright  example,  not  without  rebuke, 
Admonisheth,  that  home,  and  ease,  and  wealth, 
And  native  hnd,  are  well  exchang'd  for  heaven. 


176 


•I  WILL  ARISE  AND   GO  U'NTO  MY 
FATHER." 


WANDEREK,  amid  the  snares 
Of  Time's  uncertain  way, 

Of  thousand  nameless  fears  the  sport, 
Of  countless  ills  the  prey  : 

A  stranger  'mid  the  land 

Whore  thy  probation  lies, 
In  peril  from  each  adverse  blast 

And  e'en  from  prosperous  skies. 

In  peril  from  thy  friends, 

In  peril  from  thy  foes, 
In  peril  from  the  rebel  heart 

That  in  thy  bosom  glows ; 

Hast  thou  no  Father's  house 
Beyond  this  pilgrim  scene, 

That  thou  on  Earth's  delusive  props 
With  bleeding  breast  doth  lean? 


"l   WILL   AH1SE,"    ETC.  t 

Yet  not  a  Mother's  care 

Who  for  her  infant  sighs, 
When  absence  shuts  it  from  her  anna 

Or  sickness  dims  its  eyes, 

Transcends  the  love  divine, 

The  welcome  full  and  free 
With  which  the  glorious  King  of  Heaven 

Will  stretch  his  arms  to  thee, 

When  thou  with  contrite  tear 

Shall  wait  within  his  walls, 
Imploring  but  the  broken  bread 

That  from  his  table  falls. 

No  more  his  mansion  shun, 

No  more  distrust  his  grace, 
Turn  from  the  orphanage  of  earth 

And  find  a  Sire's  embraco. 


178 


VOICE  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  A 
SUNDAY  SCHOOL  TEACHER. 


YES  tins  is  the  holy  ground, 

Lay  me  to  slumber  here, 
The  cherish'd  thoughts  of  early  days, 

Have  made  this  spot  most  dear, — 
Fast  by  the  hall»w'd  church 

Where  first  I  learned  to  pray 
In  faith,  and  penitence  and  peace,— 

Make  ye  my  bed  of  clay. 

Though  life  hath  been  to  me 

A  scene  of  joy  and  love, 
And  sweet  affections  round  my  heart 

Unchanging  garlands  wove, 
Though  knowledge  in  its  power 

At  studious  midnight  came, 
Enkindling  in  my  raptur'd  mind, 

A  bright,  unwavering  flame  ; 

Yet  dearer  far  than  all, 
Was  Heaven's  celestial  lore' 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT  SCHOLAR.  179 

Then  come,  belov'd  and  youthful  train, 

Who  hear  ray  voice  no  more 
Come,  sing  the  hymn  I  taught, 

Here,  by  my  lowly  bed, 
And  with  your  Sabbath-lessons  blend 

Sweet  memories  of  the  dead. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF   A  MEMBER  OF  THE  INFANT 
SCHOOL. 

"  He  gat'iereth  the  lambs  with  his  arm,  and  carrieth 
Ihem  in  his  bosom."— ISAIAH. 

LAMB  !  in  a  clime  of  verdure, 

Thy  favored  lot  was  cast, 
No  serpent  'mid  thy  rlow'ry  food, 

Upon  thy  fold  no  blast, — 
Thine  were  the  crystal  fountains, 

And  thine  a  .cloudless  sky, 
A',nid  thy  sports  a  star  of  love 

Thy  playmate  brother's  eye. 

Approving  guides  caress' d  thee, 

Where'er  thy  footsteps  rov'd  , 
The  ear  that  heard  thee  bless'd  thee, 

The  eye  that  saw  thee  lov'd ; 
Yet  life  hath  snares  and  sorrows 

From  which  no  friend  can  save, 


180  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT  SCHULAK. 

And  evils  might  have  thronged  thy  patfc, 
Which  thou  wert  weak  to  brave. 

There  is  a  heavenly  Shepherd, 

And  ere  thy  infant  charms 
Had  caught  the  tinge  of  care  or  woe 

He  call'd  thee  to  his  arms. 
And  though  the  shadowy  valley, 

With  Death's  dark  frown  was 
Light  cheer'd  the  stormy  passage 

And  thou  art  safe  with  Him. 


DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  MUSICIAN. 


Music  was  in  thy  heart,  and  fast  entwin'a, 
And  closely  knotted  with  its  infant  strings, 
Were  the  rich  chords  of  melody.     When  youth 
And  science  led  thee  to  their  classic  bower, 
A  pale  and  patient  student,  the  lone  lamp 
Of  midnight  vigil  found  thee  pouring  out 
Thy  soul  in  dulcet  sound.     In  memory's  cell 
Still  live  those  thrilling  tones,  as  erst  they  broke, 
Beguiling  with  sweet  choral  symphonies 
The  festal  hour. 

But,  lo  !  white  thou  didst  wake 
The  solemn  organ  to  entrancing  power, 
Tracing  the  secret  spells  of  harmony, 
On  through  deep  rapture's  labyrinthine  maze 
Devotion  came,  and  breath'd  upon  thy  brow, 
And  made  her  temple  in  thy  tuneful  breast. 
80,  music  led  thee  to  thy  Saviour's  feet, 
Serene  and  true  disciple,  and  their  harps 
Who  fondly  hold  untiring  guardianship 
O'er  frail  man's  pilgrim  path,  were  tremulous 
With  joy  for  thre. 


182  DEATH    OF   A   YOUNG  MUSICIAN, 

Nor  vainly  to  thy  soul 
Came  Heaven's  high  message  wrapp'd  in  rnin 

trelsy, 

For  to  its  service,  with  unshrinking  zeal, 
The  blossom  of  thy  life  was  dedicate. 
Thy  hand  was  on  Gorl's  altar,  when  a  touch, 
Sudden  and  strange  and  icy  cold,  unloos'd 
Its  fervent  grasp.     Thy  gentle  heart  was  glad 
With  the  soft  promise  of  a  hallow'd  love. 
But  stern  death  dash'd  it  out.     Now  there  ara 

tears 
In  tenderest  eyes  for  thee. 

Yet  we  who  know 

That  earth  hath  many  discords  for  a  soul 
•Fine-ton' d  and  seraph -strung,  and  that  the  feet 
Which  fain  would  follow  Christ  are  sometimes 

held 

In  the  dark  meshes  of  a  downward  course, 
Till  strong  repentance  urge  them  back  with 

tears, 
Do  feel  thy  gain. 

'Tis  well  thou  art  at  home, 
Spirit  cf  melody  and  peace  and  love. 


183 


THE  SOUTH-AMERICAN  STATUES. 


There  are  still  found,  upon  the  snow-covered  cliffs 
of  the  Andes,  the  bodies  of  some  of  those  Spaniards, 
who  after  the  discovery  of  America,  in  searching  for 
the  rich  mines,  that  had  been  described  to  them  iu 
Peru,  took  a  circuitous  route  among  the  mountains, 
and  perished  by  the  cold,  which  petrified  them  into 
Btatues. 


WHY  seek  ye  out  such  dizzy  height 

Amid  yon  drear  domain  ? 
Why  choose  ye  cells  with  frost-work  white 

Ye  haughty  men  of  Spain  ? 
The  Condor,  on  his  mighty  wing 

Doth  scale  your  cloud- wreathed  walls, 
But  to  his  scream  their  caverns  ring, 

As  from  the  cliff  he  falls. 

The  poor  Peruvian  scans  with  dread 

Your  fix'd  and  stony  eye, 
The  timid  child  averts  his  head, 

And  faster  hurries  by 


184  THE   SOUTH -AMERICAN   STATUES. 

They  from  the  fathers  of  the  land 
Have  heard  your  withering  tale, 

Nor  spare  to  mock  the  tyrant  band 
Transformed  to  statues  pale. 

Ye  came  to  grasp  the  Indian's  gold, 

Ye  scorn' d  his  feathery  dart, 
But  Andes  rose,  that  monarch  old, 

And  took  his  children's  part, 
And  with  that  strange  embalming  art 

Which  ancient  Egypt  knew, 
He  threw  his  frost-chain  o'er  your  heart, 

As  to  his  breast  ye  grew. 

He  chain' d  you  while  strong  manhood's  tide 

Did  through  your  bosoms  roll 
Upon  your  lip  the  curl  of  pride, 

And  avarice  in  your  soul. 
Strange  slumber  stole  with  mortal  pang 

Across  the  frozen  plain, 
And  thunderblasts  your  sentence  rang, 

"Sleep  and  ne'er  wake  again." 

Uprose  the  moon,  the  Queen  of  night 

Danc'd  with  the  Protean  tide, 
And  years  fulfill'd  their  measur'd  flight, 

And  ripening  ages  died, 
Slow  centuries  in  oblivion's  flood 

Sank  like  the  tossing  wave. 


THE   SOUTH- AMERICAN   STATUES.  185 

But  changeless  and  transfix'd  ye  stood, 
The  dead  without  a  grave. 

The  infant  wrought  its  flowery  span 

On  Love's  maternal  breast, 
And  whiten'd  to  a  hoary  man, 

And  laid  him  down  to  rest, 
Race  after  race,  with  weary  moan 

Went  to  their  dreamless  sleeo. 
While  ye,  upon  your  feet  of  stone, 

Perpetual  penance  keep. 

How  little  deem'd  ye,  when  ye  hurl'd 

Your  challenge  o'er  the  main, 
And  vow'd  to  teach  a  new-born  world 

The  vassalage  of  Spain, 
Thus  till  the  doom's-day  cry  of  pain 

Shall  rive  your  prison-rock, 
To  bear  upon  your  brow  like  Cain, 

A  mark  that  all  might  mock. 

But  long  from  high  Castilian  bowers 

Look'd  forth  the  inmates  fair, 
And  gave  the  tardy  midnight  hours 

To  watching  and  despair, 
Oft  starting  as  some  light  guitar 

Its  breath  of  sweetness  shed, 
Yet  lord  and  lover  linger' d  far 

Till  life's  urief  vision  fled. 


187 


AGRICULTURE. 


Tflt  hero  halh  his  fame, 

'Tis  blazon' d  on  his  tomb. 
But  earth  withholds  her  glad  acclaim, 

And  frowns  in  silent  gloom : 
His  footsteps  on  her  breast 

Were  like  the  Simoom's  blast, 
And  Death's  dark  ravages  attest 

Where'er  the  Conqueror  past. 

By  him  her  harvests  sank, 

Her  famish' d  flocks  were  slain, 
And  from  the  fount  where  thousands  drank 

Came  gushing  blood  like  rain  ; 
For  him  no  requiem-sigh 

From  vale  or  grove  shall  swell, 
But  flowers  exulting  lift  their  eye, 

Where  the  proud  spoiler  fell. 

Jjook  at  yon  peaceful  bands 
Who  guide  the  glittering  share, 

The  quiet  labour  of  whose  hands 
Doth  make  Earth's  bosom  fair 


186  THE  SOUTH- AMERICAN   STATtTEH. 

Their  vaunted  tournament  is  o'er, 

Their  knightly  lance  in  rest, 
Ambition's  fever  burns  no  more 

Within  their  conquering  breast, 
For  high  between  the  earth  and  skiet 

Check' d  in  their  venturous  path* 
A  fearful  monument  they  rise, 

Of  Andes'  vengeful  wraifc- 


So 

For  them  the  rich  perfume 
From  ripen' d  fields  doth  flow, 

They  bid  the  desert  rose  to 
The  wild  with  plenty  glow. 

A.h  !  happier  thus  to  prize 

The  humble,  rural  shade, 
And  like  our  Father  in  the  skies 

Blest  Nature's  work  to  aid, 
Than  famine  and  despair 

Among  mankind  to  spread, 
And  Earth  our  mother's  curpe  tc  bear 

Down  to  the  silent  dead. 


189 


FUNERAL  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 


THERE  was  a  throng  within  the  temple-gates, 
And  more  of  sorrow  on  each  thoughtful  brow 
Than  seemed  to  fit  the  sacred  day  of  praise. 
Neighbour  on  neighbour  gaz'd,  and  friend  on 

friend, 

Yet  few  saluted  ;  tor  the  sense  01  loss 
Weigh' d  heavy  in  each  bosom.     Aged  men 
Bowed  down  their  reverend  heads  in  wondering 

woe, 

That  he  who  so  retain' d  the  ardent  smile 
And  step  elastic  of  life's  morning  prime, 
Should  fall  before  them.     Stricken  at  his  side 
Were  friendships  of  no  common  fervency 
Or  brief  endurance  ;  for  his  cheering  tone 
And  the  warm  pressure  of  his  hand,  restor'd 
Young  recollections,  scenes  of  boyhood's  bliss, 
And  the  unwounded  trust  of  guileless  years. 
— The  men  of  skill,  who  cope  with  stern  disease, 
And  wear  Hygeia's  mamle,  offering  still 
Fresh  incense  at  her  shrine,  with  sighs  deplore 
A  brother  and  a  guide.     But  can  ye  tell 
How  many  now  amid  this  gather' d  throng 


190  FUNERAL   OF   A  PHYSICIAN. 

tn  tender  meditations  deeply  muse, 
Coupling  his  image  with  their  gratitude  ? 
He  had  stood  with  them  at  the  gate  of  death. 
And  pluck'  them  from  the  spoiler's  threatening 

grasp, 

Or,  when  the  roses  from  their  pilgrimage 
Were  shorn,  walk'd  humbly  with  them  'neath 

the  cloud 

Of  God's  displeasure.     Such  remembrances 
Rush  o'er  their  spirits  with  a  whelming  tide, 
Till  in  the  heart's  deep  casket  tribute  tears 
Lie  thick,  like  pearls.    And  doubt  not  there  arc 

those 

'Mid  this  assembly,  in  the  scanty  robes 
Of  penury  half  wrapt,  who  well  might  tell 
Of  ministrations  at  their  couch  of  woe, 
Ot  toil-spent  nights,  and  timely  charities, 
Uncounted,  save  in  heaven. 

'Tis  well!— 'Tis  well! 
The  parted  benefactor  justly  claims 
Such  obsequies.     Yet  let  the  Gospel  breathe 
Its  strain  sublime.   A  hallow'd  hand  hath  cull;d 
From  the  deep  melodies  of  David's  lyre, 
And  from  the  burning  eloquence  of  Paul, 
Balm  from  the  mourner's  wound.     But  there'a 

a  group 

Within  whose  sacred  home  yon  lifeless  form 
Had  been  the  centre  of  each  tender  hope, 
The  soul  of  every  joy.     Affections  pure 
And  patriarchal  hospitality, 


FUNERAL   OF   A   PHYSICIAN.  191 

Like  household  deities,  presiding,  spread 
Their  wings  around,  making  the  favour' d  cell 
As  bright  a  transcript  of  lost  Eden's  bliss, 
As   beams  below.     Now  round    that    shaded 

hearth 

The  polish'  d  brow  of  radiant  beauty  droops, 
Like  the  pale  lily-flower,  by  pitiless  storms 
Press'd  and  surcharg'd.     There  too  are  sad- 

den'd  eyes 

More  eloquent  than  words,  and  bursting  hearts  ; 
Earth  may  not  heal  such  grief.    '  Tis  heaVd  in 

keawm. 


192 


NATURE'S   BEAUTY. 


[  LOOKED  on  nature's  beauty,  and  it  caino 

Like  a  blest  spirit  to  my  inmost  heart, 

And  sadness  fled  away.     The  fragrant  breeze 

Swept  o'er  me,  as  a  tale  of  other  times, 

Lifting  the  curtain  from  the  ancient  cells 

Of  early  memory.     The  voung  vine  put  forth 

Her  quivering  tendrils,  while  the  patron  bough 

Lured  their  light  clasping,  with  such  love   as 

leaves 

DD  whisper  to  each  other,  when  they  lean 
To  drink  the  music  of  the  summer-shower. 

There  was  a  sound  ot  wings,  and  through  the 

mesn. 

Of  her  green  latticed  chamber,  stole  the  bird 
To  cheer  her  callow  young.  The  stream  flowed 

on, 

And  on  its  lake-like  breast,  the  bending  trees 
Did  glass  themselves  with  such  serene  repose 
That  their  still  haunt  seemed  holy.  The  spent 

eon 


NATURE'S  BEAUTY.  19S 

Turned  to  his  rest,  and  soft  his  parting  ray 
To  mountain-top,  and  spire,  and  verdant  grove, 
And  burnished  casement,  and  reposing  nest. 
Spake  benediction.     And  the  vesper-strain 
Went  breathing  up  from  every  plant  and  flower. 

The  rose  did  fold  itself,  as  though  it  caught 
From    some    high    minaret,    the    cry,    "  To 

prayer !" 

At  which  the  Moslem  kneels  ;  and  the  blue  eye 
Of  the  young  violet,  look'd  devoutly  forth 
As  looks  the  shepherd,  from  his  cottage  door 
When  the   clear  horn  doth  warn  the   Alpine 

cliffs 
To  praise  the  Lord.     And  then  the  queenly 

moon 
Came  through  heaven's  portal.   High  her  vestal 

train 

Did  bear  their  brilliant  cressets  in  their  hands— 
Trembling  with  pride  and  pleasure.   Beauty  lay 
Like  a  broad  mantle  on  each  slumbering  dell 
And  to  the  domes,  ;hat  peered  through  woven 

shades 
Gave  Attic  grace. 

'Twere  sweet  to  bear  away 
And  keep  the  precious  picture  in  my  heart 
Of  these  sweet  woods,  *ind  waters,  summer- 

drest 

And  angel -voic'd — until  I  lay  me  down 
On  the  low  pillow  of  my  last  repose. 
3 


194 


SENTIMENT  Ilv  A  SERMON. 


"Piety  flourishes  best,  in  a  soil  watered  by  team, 
and  often  succeeds,  where  harvests  of  temporal  good 
tuve  failed." 


HOPE'S  soft  petals  love  the  beam 

That  cheer' d  them  into  birth  ; — 
Pleasure  seeks  a  glittering  stream 

Bright  oozing  from  the  earth  ;— 
Knowledge  yields  his  lofty  fruit 

To  those  who  climb  with  toil, 
But  Heaven's  pure  plant  strikes  deepest  root 

Where  tears  have  dew'd  the  soil. 

Hope  with  flow' rets  strews  the  blast 

When  adverse  winds  arise  ; 
Pleasure's  garlands  wither  fast 

Before  inclement  skies ; 
Knowledge  often  mocks  pur&iiit, 

Involv'd  in  mazy  shade, 
But  Piety  yields  richer  fruit 

W'aen  earthly  harvests  fade. 


195 

THE  POWER  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

AN  ANCIENT  LEGEND  OF  FKANCONIA. 


'TWAS  midnight  on  the  Gaulish  plains, 
And  foes  were  mustering  near  ; 

For  there  Franconia's  warriors  frown'd, 
With  battle-axe  and  spear. 

Untented  on  the  earth  they  lay 

Beneath  a  summer  sky, 
While  on  their  slumbering  host,  the  Moon 

Look'd  down  with  wistful  eye, 

As  if  reproachfully  she  sigh'd 

"  Oh  ye  of  transient  breath  ! 
How  can  ye  rise  from  rest  so  sweet 

To  do  the  deeds  of  death!" 

Discoursing  mid  the  sleeping  train 
Two  noble  youths  were  found  ; 

Their  graceful  limbs  recumbent  thrown 
Upon  the  dewy  ground. 


196 


THE  POWER   OF   FRIENDSHIP. 


Bold  Carloman's  undaunted  mien 

A  hero's  spirit  show'd, 
Though  Beauty  on  his  lip  and  brow 

Had  made  her  soft  abode. 


And  Merovee's  dark,  hazle  eye 

Like  flashing  fire  was  bright, 
As  thus  with  flowing  words  he  cham'd 

The  leaden  ear  of  night. 

"  Methinks  'twrere  sweet  once  more  tc  see 

Our  native,,  forest  shade, 
And  the  wild  streamlet  leaping  free 

Along  the  sparkling  glade, 

"  With  merry  shout,  at  peep  of  dawn. 

The  hunter's  toil  to  join, 
Or  in  the  tiny  boat  launch  forth 

And  rule  the  billowy  Rhine." 

He  paused, — but  Carloman  replied, 
"  Lurks  not  some  spell  behind? — 

Why  doth  thy  courtier-tongue  delay 
To  name  fair  Rosalind  ? 

*  Those  raven  locks,  that  lofty  brow, 

That  ebon  eye  of  pride, 
With  firm,  yet  tender  glance,  might  well 

Beseem  a  warrior's  bride." 


THE   POWER   OF  FRIENDSHIP.  191 

With  trembling  voice  he  scarce  pursued, 
"  Why  should  we  shrink,  to  say 

flow  much  we  both  have  loved  the  maid  ? 
Yet  on  our  parting  day — 

•l  Her  farewell  words  to  me  were  kind. 

They  flow'd  in  silver  tone, 
Put  ah  !  the  tear-drop  of  the  soul 

Was  shed  for  thee  alone. 

*'  Fin  to-morrow's  bloody  fray, 

I  slumber  with  the  slain, 
And  thou  survive,  with  joy  to  greet 

Our  native  vales  again, 

"  0  bear  to  her  so  long  adored 

My  dying  wish," — in  vain 
To  werxve  the  tissued  thoughts  he  strove, 

For  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 


Thrice  Merovee  the  mourner's  hand 
Wrung  hard,  and  would  have  said, 

"  Fear  not  that  Love's  insidious  shaft 
Shall  strike  our  friendship  dead !" 

He  thrice  essay'd, — yet  still  \vas  mute  ;• 
Then  loosed  his  bossy  shield, 

And  laid  him  down  as  if  to  sleep 
Upon  the  verdant  field. 


198 


THE  POWER   OF   FRIENDSHIP. 


He  laid  him  down,  but  wakeful  woe 

His  weary  heart  amazed, 
And  by  the  pale  moon's  waning  ray 

On  Car  Ionian  he  gazed. 

The  pastimes  of  their  boyish  years, 

The  confidence  of  youth, 
And  holy  Friendship's  treasur'd  vow 

Of  everlasting  truth, 

Came  thronging  o'er  his  generous  soul, 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 
Up  from  his  restless  couch  he  rose, 

And  wander 'd  lone  away. 

But  Carloman  in  broken  sleep 
Still  roved  with  troubled  mind, 

Oft  in  his  dark  dream  murmuring  deept 
"  Adieu,  my  Rosalind  !" 

Then  in  his  ear  a  thrilling  voice 
Exclaini'd  "Brave  youth, — arise! 

The  morn  that  lights  to  glorious  strife 
With  purple  flouts  the  skies  : — 

No  lover  to  his  bridal  hastes 

With  spirit  half  so  warm, 
As  rush  Francom'a's  sons  to  meet 

Red  battle's  moody  storm." 


THE  POWER   OF  FKIENDSHIP.  199 

Av>ash'd  the  youthful  sleeper  sprang, 

And  Merovee  stood  near, , 
\n  iron  chain  was  in  his  hand, 

And  on  his  brow  a  tear. 

Then  quickly  round  the  forms  of  both 

That  stubborn  band  he  threw, 
And  joined  the  parted  links  in  one, 

And  set  the  rivet  true. 

"  Think' st  thou  I'd  cross  the  rolling  Rhine 

And  see  our  forests  wave, 
And  urge  my  suit  to  Rosalind 

When  thou  wert  in  thy  grave  ? 

"  No  ! — by  yon  golden  orb  that  rolls 

In  splendor  through  the  air, 
If  honour's  death  this  day  be  thine, 

That  holy  death  I'll  share." 

They  arm'd  them  for  the  battle-field, 

Their  blood  was  boiling  high, 
Forgot  were  danger,  love,  and  woe, 

In  that  proud  ecstacy ; 

Forgot  was  she,  whose  hand  alone 

Could  give  the-ir  hope  its  meed, 
Forgot  was  all  in  earth  or  heaven 

Save  their  dear  country's  need. 


THE  POVER   OF   FRIENDSHIP. 

Their  rushing  legions  like  the  surge 

When  tempests  lash  the  main, 
With  thundering  shout  and  revelry 

Spread  o'er  the  fatal  plain. 

Forth  came  the  cavalry  of  Gaul, 

With  glittering  lance  and  spur, 
Led  on  by  warlike  Constantino, 

That  Christian  Emperor. 

With  cloud  of  darts  and  clash  of  swords 

They  greet  the  early  sun, 
And  when  his  western  gate  he  sought 

The  conflict  scarce  was  done. 

But  sober  twilight's  mantle  grey 

Enwrapt  a  silent  plain, 
Save  where  from  wounded  bosoms  burst 

The  lingering  groan  of  pain. 

Crush'd  forms  were  there,  where  stubborn  life 

Still  for  the  mastery  pined, 
Stern  brows,  where  death  had  pass'd,  and  left 

The  frown  of  hate  behind. 

And  mid  that  ghastly  train  were  seen 

Two  victims  young  and  fair, 
The  chain  that  bound  their  polish' d  breasts 

Reveal'd  what  youths  they  were. 


THE  TOWER   OF   FRIENDSHIP.  20', 

Bold  toward  the  sky,  the  marble  brow 

Of  Carloman  was  turn'd, 
And  firm  his  right  hand  grasp' d  the  sword 

As  if  some  foe  he  spurn'd  ; 

His  ample  shield  was  fondly  flung, 

To  guard  his  partner's  breast, 
And  Merovee's  pale,  bloomless  lips 

Upon  his  cheek  were  prest ; — • 

While  weltering  in  the  purple  stream 

That  dyed  their  garments'  fold, 
Their  flowing  curls  profusely  lay, 

Bright  chesnut  blent  with  gold. 

And  eyes  that  wept  such  fate,  might  read 

Upon  their  bosom's  chain, 
That  once  when  Love  and  Friendship  strove 

The  power  of  Love  was  vain. 


THE  GARDEN, 


"  Oardeitt  Vive  been  the  scenes  of  the  three  mosi 
Stupendous  events  that  have  occurred  on  earth  : — the 
temptation  s»/id  fall  of  man — the  agony  of  the  Son  of 
God — and  hirf  resuriection  from  the  grave." — NOTES 
of  the  American  Editor  O/KEBLE'S  CHRISTIAN  YEAR." 


IS'T  not  a  holy  place,  thy  garden's  bound, 
Peopled  with  plants, and  every  living  leaf 
Instinct  with  thought,  to  stir  the  musing  mind  ? 
—Where  was  it  that  our   Mother  wandering 

went, 
When  'mid  her  nursling  vines  and  flowers,  she 

met 

Hie  gliding  serpent  in  his  green  and  gold, 
And  rashly  listen'd  to  his  glozing  tongue, 
Till  loss  of  Eden  and  the  wrath  of  God 
Did  fade  from  her  remembrance  ?     Was  it  not 
A  garden,  where  this  deed  of  rashness  check' d 
The  stainless  blossom  of  a  world  unborn  ? 
— Still,  tread  with  trembling.    Hast  tlwu  nough\ 

to  tear  ? 


THE   GARDEN.  203 

No  tempter  in  thy  path,  with  power  to  sow 
Thy  Paradise  with  thorns,  if  God  permit  ? 
So,  hold  thy  way  amid  the  sweets  of  earth 
With  cautious  step,  and  have  thy  trust  above? 
— Is't  not  a  holy  place,  thy  garden's  bound, 
When  .at  the  cool  close  of  the  summer's  day 
Thou  lingerest  there,  indulging  sweet  discourse 
With  lips  belov'd?     Then  speak  of  Him  who 

bare 

Upon  his  tortur'd  brow,  strange  dews  of  blood 
For  man's  redemption. 

Bring  the  thrilling  scene 

Home  to  thine  inmost  sonl : — the  sufferer's  cry, 
"  Father  !  if  it  be  possible,  this  cup 
Take  thou  away. —  Yet  not  my  will  but  thine  .*" 
The  sleeping  friends  who  could  not  watch  one 

hour, 

The  torch,  the  flashing  sword,  the  traitor's  kiss, 
The  astonish'd  anijel  with  the  tear  of  Heaven 
Upon  his  cheek,  still  striving  to  assuage 
Those  fearful  pangs  that  bow'd  the  Son  of  God 
Like  a  bruis'd  reed.     Thou  who  hast  power  to 

look 

Thus  at  Gethsemane,  be  still  !  be  still.' 
What  are  thine  insect-woes  compared  to  his 
Who  agonizeth  there  ?     Count  thy  brief  pain* 
As  the  dust-atom  on  life's  chariot  wheels, 
And  in  a  Saviour's  grief  forget  them  all. 
— Is't  not  a  holy  place,  thy  .garden's  bound  ? 
"  Look  to  the  sepulchre  !"  said  they  of  Rome. 


E04  THE   GAKPEN. 

"  And  set  a  seal  upon  it."     So,  the  guard 
Who  knew  that  sleep  was  death,  stood  with  fix'd 

eye 

Watching  the  garden-tomb,  which  proudly  hid 
The  body  of  the  crucified. 

Whose  steps 

'Mid  the  ill  stifled  sob  of  woman's  grief 
Prevent  the  dawn  ?     Yet  have  they  come  too 

late, 

For  He  is  risen, — He  hath  burst  the  tomb, 
Whom  'twas  not  possible  for  Death  to  hold. 
Yea,  his  pierced  hand  did  cleave  the  heavens,  ta 

share 

That  resurrection,  which  the  "  slow  of  heart" 
Shrank  to  believe. 

Fain  would  I,  on  this  spot, 
So  holy,  ponder,  till  the  skies  grow  dark, 
And  sombre  evening  spreads  her  deepest  pall. 
— Come  to  my  heart,  thou  Wisdom  that  dost 

grow 

Jn  the  chill  coffin  of  the  shrouded  dead, 
Come  to  my  heart.    For  silver  hairs  may  spring 
Thick  o'er  the  temples,  yet  the  soul  fall  short 
Even  of  that  simple  rudiment  which  dwells 
With  babes  in  Christ.     I  would  be  taught  of 

thee, 

Severe  Instructor,  who  dost  make  thy  page 
Of  pulseless  breasts  and  unimpassion'd  brows, 
And  lips  Uat  yield  no  sound.     Thou  who  dost 

wake 


VEK  GJLRDEN.  303 

Man  for  that  lesson  which  he  reads  DIU  once, 
And  mak'st  thy  record  of  the  sullen  mounds 
That  mar  the  church-yard's  smoothness,  let  me 

glean 

Wisdom  among  the  tombs,  for  I  would  learn 
Thy  deep,  unflattering  lore.  What  have  I  said  ? 
No  !  not  of  thee,  but  of  the  hand  that  pluck'd 
The  sceptre  from  thee. 

Thou,  who  once  didst  taste 
Of  all  man's  sorrows,  save  the  guilt  of  sin, — 
Divine  Redeemer  !  teach  us  so  to  walk 
In  these  our  earthly  gardens,  as  to  gain 
Footing  at  last,  amid  the  trees  of  God, 
Which  by  the  Eternal  River  from  His  Throne 
Nourish'd.  shall  never  fade. 


206 


VICE. 


Iff  vain  the  heart  that  goes  astray 
From  virtue's  seraph -guarded  way,*** 
May  hope  that  feelings,  just  and  free, 
Meek  peace, — or  firm  integrity, — 
Or  innocence,  with  snowy  vest 
Will  condescend  to  be  its  guest. 

As  soon  within  the  viper's  cell 

Might  pure  and  white-wing'd  spirits  dwell; 
As  soon  the  flame  01  vivid  gleam 
Glow  in  the  chill  and  turbid  stream  ; — 
For  by  strong  links,  a  viewless  chain 
Connects  our  wanderings  with  our  pain,— 
And  Heaven  ordains  it  thus,  to  show, 
That  bands  of  Aice,  are  bonds  of  woeu 


207 


THE    SWEDISH  LOVERS. 


WHERE  Dalecarlia's  pine-clad  hills 
Rear  high  in  air  the  untrodden  snow, 

Where  her  scant  vales  and  murmuring  rilll 
A  short  and  sultry  summer  know, 

Where  great  Gustavus  exiled,  fled, 
And  found  beneath  a  covering  rude 

Hearts  by  the  noblest  impulse  led 
Of  valour,  faith,  and  fortitude, 

Tnere  still,  a  virtuous  race  retain 
The  simple  manners  of  their  sires, 

Unchanged  by  love  of  sordid  gain, 
Or  stern  ambition's  restless  fires, 

And  there,  where  silver  Mora  flow'd, 
Jn  freshness  through  the  changeful  wild, 

A  peasant  rear'd  his  lone  abode, 
And  fair  Ulrica  was  his  child. 

Untutor'd  by  the  arts  that  spoil 

The  soul's  integrity  was  she, 
And  nurtur'd  in  the  virtuous  toil 

Of  unpretending  poverty. 


808  THE  SWEDISH    LOVERS. 

Wrthin  a  neighbouring  hamlet's  bound, 
In  manly  beauty's  ardent  grace, 

Christiern  his  hum*:  le  dwelling  found 
Amid  the  miner's  hardy  race. 

He  oft  beheld  Ulrica's  hand 

A  part  in  rural  labour  take, 
To  bind  the  sheaf  with  pliant  band, 

Or  steer  the  light  boat  o'er  the  lake. 

He  mark'd  the  varying  toil  bestow 
On  her  pure  cheek  a  richer  dye, 

And  saw  enlivening  spirits  flow 
In  dazzing  radiance  from  her  eye. 

Oft  in  the  holy  house  of  prayer 

Where  weekly  crowds  assembling  bow 

He  mark'd  the  meek  and  reverent  air 
Which  shed  new  lustre  o'er  her  brow. 

And  soon  no  joy  his  heart  might  share 
Unless  her  soft  smile  met  his  view, 

And  soon  he  thought  no  scene  was  fair 
Unless  her  eye  admired  it  too. 

And  duly  as  the  shadows  fleet 

O'er  closing  day,  with  silence  fraught, 

Y^oung  Christiern  with  his  lute  so  sweet 
Ulrica's  peaceful  mansion  sought. 


THE  SWEDISH   LOVIK3.  209 

Long  nad  the  gossip's  mystic  speech 
Deep  knowledge  of  their  love  profust, 

Before  the  timid  lip  of  each 

The  cherish' d  secret  had  exprest. 

But  when  the  trembling  pain  reveal' d, 
And  vows  of  mutual  faith  had  cheer' d^ 

Quick  on  the  hamlet's  verdant  field 
Christiern  their  simple  cottage  rear'd. 

And  taught  Ulrica's  rose  to  twine 
Its  tendrils  round  the  rustic  door, 

And  thought  how  sweet  at  day's  decline 
When  the  accustom' d  task  was  o'er, 

To  sit  and  pour  the  evening  song 
Amid  gay  summer's  varied  bloom, 

And  catch  the  breeze  that  bore  along 
Her  favourite  flowret's  rich  perfume. 

The  appointed  day  its  course  begun 
With  gentle  beams  of  rosy  light, 

When  they  whose  hearts  had  long  been  one 
Should  join  their  hands  in  hallow'd  rite. 

At  morn  the  marriage  bell  was  rung, 

Where  the  lone  spire  from  chapel  towers, 

And  village  maids  assembling  hung 
Ulrica's  lowly  hall  with  flowers. 
14 


CIO  THE  SWEDISH   LOVERS. 

Yet  mark'd  a  shade  that  pensively 
Was  stealing  o'er  her  features  fair, 

For  mid  those  hours  of  festive  glee 

The  youthful  bridegroom  came  not  there. 

Full  oft  along  the  coppice  green 

She  deem'd  his  well-known  step  she  heari 
Then  brightening,  rais'd  her  lovely  mem, 

Then  sigh'd — for  other  guest  appear'd. 

Dim  twilight  o'er  the  landscape  fell, 
Sad  evening  paced  its  tardy  round, 

Nor  Christiern  at  his  father's  cell, 
Nor  through  the  hamlet's  range  was  found* 

"  'Tis  but  in  sport," — her  neighbours  cried, 
"  The  temper  of  your  heart  to  prove." — 

"Not  thus,"  the  sinking  maid  replied, 
"  Doth  Christiern  sport  with  trusting  love." 

Night  came,  but  void  of  rest  or  sleep 
Move  on  its  watches  dark  and  slow, 

Ulrica  laid  her  down  to  weep 
In  anguish  of  unutter'd  woe. 

How  drear  the  gentle  dawn  appear'd! 

How  gloomy  morning's  rosy  ray  ! 
Nor  tidings  of  her  lover  cheer'd 

The  horrors  of  that  lengthen'd  day. 


THE   SWEDISH   LOVERS. 


211 


Weeks  past  away, — all  search  was  vain,  "— 
Her  smile  of  lingering  hope  was  dead, 

She  shunned  the  joyous  village  train, 
And  from  each  rural  pastime  fled. 

Time  wrote  his  history  on  her  brow  ! 

In  characters  of  woe  severe, 
And  furrows  mark'd  the  ceasele-ss  flow 

Of  fearful  sorrow's  burning  tear. 

Years  roll'd  on  years,— her  friends  decay'd, 
Her  seventieth  winter  chill  had  flown, 

A  new  and  alter'd  race  survey'd 
The  spectre  stranger  sad  and  lone. 

"  Why  do  I  live  ?" — she  sometimes  sigh'd, 
"Thus  crush' d  beneath  affliction's  rod?"— 

But  stern  reproving  thought  replied, 
"Ask  not  such  question  of  thy  God  !" 

Yet  still  she  lov'd  that  pine-clad  hill 
Where  erst  her  love  his  way  would  take, 

Still  wander' d  near  his  favourite  rill 
Or  sat  'jy  Mora's  glassy  lake. 

His  white- wash' d  cot  with  roses  gay, 
Had  lone  and  tenantless  been  kept, 

But  moulder 'd  now  in  time's  decay, 
A  nd  mid  its  ruins  oft  she  wept. 


212  THE  SWEDISH   I.OVE63. 

The  sound  of  flail  at  early  morn, 
Or  harvest  song  of  happy  hind, 

Awoke  undying  memory's  thorn 
To  probe  anew  her  wounded  mind. 

Where  near  her  cell,  the  quarries  bold 
W  th  veins  metallic  richly  glow, 

And  where  their  yawning  chasms  unfold 
Dark  entrance  to  the  depths  below, 

Once,  while  the  miners  toil'd  to  trace, 
Between  two  shafts  an  opening  new, 

Mid  earth  and  stones,  a  human  face 
Glared  sudden  on  their  startled  view, 

A  form  erect,  of  manly  size, 

In  that  embalming  niche  reposed, 

And  slight  and  carelessly  the  eyes 
As  if  in  recent  dreams  were  closed. 

The  sunburnt  tinge  that  bronzed  the  broW 
Was  bleach'd  within  that  humid  shade, 

And  o'er  the  smooth-cheek's  florid  glow 
The  raven  curls  profusely  play'd. 

The  pliant  hand  was  soft  and  fair, 
As  if  in  youth's  unfolding  primef 

Altho'  the  bridal  robes  declare 
The  costume  of  an  ancient  time. 


THE  SWEDISH   LOVEKS.  213 

Yet  no  recorded  fact  might  tell 
Who  fill'd  that  dark  mysterious  shrine, 

T've  hoariest  ones  remember' d  well 
A  shock  which  whelm' d  that  ruin'd  mine 

But  all  of  him  who  lifeless  slept, 

Was  lost  in  time's  unfathom'd  deep : 

At  length  an  aged  woman  crept 

To  join  the  throng  who  gaze  and  weep. 

Propp'd  on  her  staff  she  totter'd  near, 
But  when  the  cold  corse  met  her  eye, 

She  clasp' d  hej:  hands  in  pangs  severe, 
And  slirieks  revealed  her  agony. 

And  fainting  on  the  earth  she  lay, 
With  struggles  of  convulsive  breath, 

As  if  weak  life  had  fled  away 
In  terror  at  the  sight  of  death. 

Yet  when  their  care  again  could  light 

The  vital  taper's  fading  flame, 
When  day  assured  her  doubtful  sight, 

Deep  sighs  and  sobs  of  anguish  camo* 

No  word  of  notice  or  reply 
She  deign' d  to  their  inquiring  tone, 

One  only  object  fix'd  her  eye, 
One  image  fill'd  hsr  heart  alone. 


14  THE   SWEDISH   I  OVERS. 

'Twas  thus,  disdaining  all  relief, 
She  mourn' d  with  agoniz'ng  strife, 

While  the  wild  storm  of  love  and  grief 
Rack'd  the  worn  ligaments  of  life. 

'Twas  thus  o'er  age  and  sorrow's  gloon, 
Unchill'd  affection  soar'd  sublime, 

While  strangely  foster' d  in  the  tomb 
Youth  rose,  to  mock  the  power  of  time* 

That  shrivell'd  form  convulsed  so  long, 
And  that  bright  brow  devoid  of  breath, 

Gleam'd  forth  in  contradiction  strong, 
Like  buried  life,  and  living  death. 

'Twas  strange  from  livid  lips  to  hear 
Such  wild  lament,  such  piercing  groan, 

While  manly  love  reposing  near, 

Call'd  forth,  yet  heeded  not  the  moan. 

The  mourner  raised  the  curls  whose  shade 
Conceal' d  that  polish' d  forehead  dear, 

And  thore  her  wasted  hand  she  laid, 
Escluiming  in  the  lifeless  ear, 

"  Oh  '.—have  I  lived  to  see  that  face 
Engraved  upon  my  soul  so  deep  ? 

And  in  this  bitterness  to  trace, 

Those  feat/ires  wrapt  in  holy  sleep  ? 


THE  SWEDISH  LDVJCKS.  215 

My  promised  love  ! — thou  still  hast  Kept 
The  beauty  of  thy  mantling  prime, 

While  o'er  my  broken  frame  have  crept 
The  wrinkles  and  the  scars  of  time. 

Yes.— Well  may  I  be  wreck' d  and  torn 
Whom  fifty  adverse  years  have  seen 

Like  blasted  oak,  the  whirlwind's  scorn 
Still  clinging  where  my  joys  had  been. 

My  boughs  and  blossoms  all  were  reft, — 
They  might  not  know  a  second  birth,— 

Why  were  my  wither' d  roots  thus  left 
Unhappy  cumberers  of  the  earth  ? 

Yet  still  one  image  soothed  my  cares, 
Amid  my  nightly  dream  would  shine, 

Came  hovering  fondly  o'er  my  prayers 
And  this,  my  buried  lord,  was  thine. 

That  smile  !— ah,  still  unchanged  it  plays 
O'er  thy  pure  cheek's  vermilion  hue, 

As  when  it  met  my  childhood's  gaze, 

Or  charm'd  my  youth's  delighted  view,— 

As  when  thy  skilful  hand  would  bring 
From  mountain's  breast,  or  shelter'd  dowflj 

Tie  earliest  buds  of  tardy  spring 
To  scatter  o'er  my  tresses  brown* 


21ft  THE   SWEDISH   LOVERS. 

Bat  now  the  blossoms  of  the  tomb 
Have  whiten' d  all  those  ringlets  gay, 

Whilst  thou  in  bright  perennial  bloom, 
Dost  shine  superior  to  decay. 

Rend  from  thy  lip  that  marble  seal, 
And  bid  once  more  those  accents  flow, 

That  waked  even  coldest  hearts  to  feel, 
And  taught  forgetfulness  to  woe. 

Wildly  I  rave ! — as  if  thine  ears 

The  sad  recital  would  receive  ; 
Vainly  I  weep  ! — as  if  those  tears 

Could  move  thy  sainted  soul  to  grieve. 

Time  was,  when  Christiern's  treasur'd  name 
No  voice  howe'er  despised  might  speak. 

But  from  my  bound-ing  heart  there  cane 
A  tide  of  crimson  o'er  the  cheek  ; 

Time  was,  when  Christiern's  step  was  hearc 
With  raptur'd  joy's  tumultuous  swell; 

And  wher  his  least  and  lightest  word, 
Was  stored  in  memory's  choicest  cell. 

Yet  have  I  lived  to  mourn  thee  lost, 
To  find  each  earthly  solace  fled, 

And  now,  on  time's  last  billow  tost, 
T;>  see  thee  rising  from  the  dead  ! 


niJE   SWEDISH    LOVERS.  21" 

Ha  ! — didst  them  speak, — and  call  my  soul 
To  bowers  where  roses  ever  bloom, 

Where  boundless  tides  of  pleasure  roll, 
And  deathless  love  defies  the  tomb  " 

1  come  !  I  come!" — Strange  lustre  fired 
Her  glazing  eye,  and  ail  was  o'er, 

No  more  that  heaving  breast  respired, 
And  earthly  sorrows  pain'd  no  more. 

So  there  they  lay,  a  lifeless  pair, 

Those  hearts  by  youthful  love  entwined 

Sever' d  by  fate,  and  fix'd  despair, 

Were  now  in  death's  cold  union  join'd. 

Full  oft  in  Dalecarlian  cells 

When  evening  shadows  darkly  droop, 
Some  hoary-headed  peasant  tells 

Their  story  to  a  listening  group. 

And  oft  the  wondering  child  willl  weep 
The  pensive  youth  unconscious  sigh, 

At  hapless  Christiern's  fearful  sleep, 
And  sad  Ulrica's  constant  y, 


218 


TO   THE  MOON. 


HAIL,  beauteous  and  inconstant !—  The  u  who 

roll'st 

Thy  silver  car  around  the  realm  of  night, 
Queen  of  soft  hours  !  how  fanciful  art  thou 
In  equipage  and  vesture. — Now  thou  com'st 
With  slender  horn  piercing  the  western  cloud, 
As  erst  on  Judah's  hills,  when  joyous  throngs? 
With  trump  and  festival,  saluted  thee  ; 
Anon  thy  waxing  crescent  'mid  the  host 
Of  constellations,  like  some  fairy  boat, 
Glides  o'er  the  waveless  sea  ;  then  as  a  bride 
Thou  bow'st  thy  cheek  behind  a  fleecy  veil, 
Timid  and  fair  ;  or,  bright  in  reeral  robes, 
Post  bid  thy  full-orb'd  chariot  roll, 
Sweeping  with  silent  rein  the  starry  path 
Up  to  the  highest  node, — then  plunging  low, 
To  seek  dim  Nadir  in  his  misty  cell. 
— Lov'st  thou  our  Earth,  that  thou  dost  hold  thy 

lamp 

To  guide  and  cheer  her,  when  the  wearied  Sun 
Forsakes  her  ?— Sometimes,   roving  on,    thou 

fihedd'st 


73   THE    MOON.  21S 

The  eclipsing  I  lot  ungrateful,  on  thy  sire 
Who  feeds  thy  urn  with  light, — but  sinking  deep 
•  Neath  the  dark  shadow  oi'  the  earth  dost  mourn 
And  find  thy  retributian. 

— Dost  thou  hold 

Dalliance  with  Ocean,  that  his  mighty  heart 
Tosses  at  thine  approach,  and  his  mad  tides, 
Drinking  thy  favouring  glance,  more  rudely  lash 
Their  rocky  bulwark  ?— Do  thy  children  trace 
Through  crystal  tube  our  coarser-featured  orb 
Even  as  we  gaze  on  thee?     With  Euclid's  art 
Perchance,  from  pole  to  pole,  her  sphere  they 

span, 

Her  sun-loved  tropics — and  her  spreading  seas 
Rich  with  their  myriad  isles.     Perchance  they 

mark 

Where  India's  cliffs  the  trembling  cloud  invade, 
Or  Andes  with  his  fiery  banner  floats 
The  empyrean, — where  old  Atlas  towers, — 
Or  that  rough  chain  whence  he  of  Carthage 

pour'd 
Terrors  on  Rome. — Thou,  too,  perchance,  hast 

nursed 

Some  bold  Copernicus,  or  fondly  call'd 
A  Galileo  forth,  those  sun-like  souls 
Which  shone  in  darkness,  though  our  darkness 

fail'd 
To  comprehend  them. — Cans't  thou  boast,  lik.e 

earth, 
A  Kepler,  skilful  pioneer  a: id  wise  ? — 


220  TO   THE  MOON. 

A  sage  to  write  his  name  among  the  s'.ars 
Like  glorious  Herscliel  ? — or  a  dynasty, 
Like  great  Cassini's,  which  from  sire  to  sen 
Transmitted  science  as  a  birthright  seal'd  ? 
— Rose   there  some  lunar  liorrox, —  to   whose 

glance 

Resplendent  Venus  her  adventurous  course 
Reveal'd,  even  in  his  boyhood  ? — some  La  Place 
Luminous  as  the  skies  he  sought  to  read  ? — 
Thou  deign'st  no  answer, — or  I  fain  would  ask 
If  since  thy  bright  creation,  thou  hast  seen 
Aught  like  a  Newton,  whose  admitted  eye 
The  arcana  of  the  Universe  explored  ? 
Light's  subtle  ray  its  mechanism  disclosed, 
The  impetuous  comet  his  mysterious  lore 
Unfolded, — system  after  system  rose, 
Eternal  wheeling  thro'  the  immensity  of  spac<3 
And  taught   him  of  their   laws.     Even  angste 

stood 

Amaz'd  as  when  in  ancient  times  they  saw 
On  Sinai's  top,  a  mortal  walk  with  God. 
»— But  he,  to  whom  the  secrets  of  the  skies 
Were  whisper'd, — in  humility  adored, 
Breathing  with  childlike  reverence  the  prayoi 
•— "  When  on  yon  heavens,  with  all  their  orbg  1 

gaze, 
Jehovah  !  what  is  man  ?" 


UNIVERSITY 


221 


TO   THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 


PALE  Primrose !  lingering  for  the  evening  star 
To  bless  thee  with  its  beam, — like  some  fail 

child 

Who,  ere  he  rests  on  Morpheus'  downy  car 
Doth  wait  his  mother's  blessing,  pure  and 

mild 

To  hallow  his  gay  dream.     His  red  lips  breathe 
The  prompted  prayer,  fast  by  that  parent's 

knee, 

Even  as  thou  rear'st  thy  sweetly  fragrant  wreath 
To  matron  Evening,   while   she  smiles  on 
thee. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  pale  flower !  the  star  hath  shed 
His  benison,  upon  thy  bosom  fair, 

The  dews  of  summer  bathe  thy  pensive  head 
And  weary  man  forgets  his  daily  care  ; — 

Sleep  on,  my  rose  !  till  morning  gilds  the  sky 

And  bright  Aurora's  kiss,  unseals  thy  trembling 
eye. 


IMITATION    OF   PARTS    OF    THE 
PROPHET   AMOS. 


I,  FROM  no  princely  stock,  or  lineage  came, 
Nor  bore  rny  sire,  a  prophet's  honour'd  narno,-* 
But  'mid  the  Tekoan  shepherds'  manners  rude, 
My  speech  was  fashion' d,  and  my  toil  pursued. 

O'er  hills  and  dales  I  led, — o'er  streams  and 

rocks, 
The   wandering   footsteps    of   my  herds,    and 

flocks,— 

I  fed  them  where  the  fruitful  rallies  fling 
Their  first,  fresh  verdure,  on  the  lap  of  spring  ; 
Or  where  the  quiet  fountains  slowly  glide 
Their  fringed  eyes,  among  the  flowers  to  hide  ;— 
And  when  the  noontide  sun,  with  fervid  heat 
Upon  the  tender  lambs,  too  fiercely  beat, 
I  guided,  where  the  mountain's  sheltering  head, 
A  sable  shade,  across  the  landscape  spread. 
There,  while  they  sank  in  slumber,  soft  and 

meek, 
I  wandered  forth,  my  simple  meal  to  seek, 


IMITATION  OF  THE  PROPHET  AMOS. 


223 


['he  juicy  wild  fig,  and  the  crystal  tide 
My  strength  renew' d,  and  nature's  wants  sup 
plied. 

When  sober  twilight  drew  her  curtaining  shade, 
And  on  the  dewy  lawn  my  flocks  were  laid,— 
[n  my  rough  mantle,  by  their  side  reclined 
I  gave  to  holy  thoughts  my  wakeful  mind ; — 
The  stars,  that  in  their  mystic  circles  move, 
The  sparkling  blue,  of  the  high  arch  above, — 
The  pomp  of  eve,  the  storm's  majestic  power, 
The  solemn  silence  of  the  midnight  hour, 
The  silver  softness  of  the  unveil' d  moon, 
Spake  to  my  soul  of  Him,  the  Everlasting  One. 

Once  as  I  woke,  from  visions,  high  and  sweet, 
And  found  my  flocks  reposing  at  my  feet, 
— Saw  morning's  earliest  ray,  the  hills  invest, 
Stream   o'er   the   forest,  touch  the  mountain's 

breast, 
Glance  o'er  the  glittering  streams  and  dart  its 

way, 

Thro'  the  damp  vales,  where  slumbering  va 
pours  lay, — 
Methought,   within    my  heart,   a  light    there 

shone 

More  clear,  and  glorious  than  the  rising  sun, — 
And  while  my  every  nerve  with  rapture  thrilled, 
A.  Power  Supreme,  my  soul  in  silence  held. 


224 


IMITATION  OF  THE  FKOi'HET  AMOS. 


Quick  to  me  eann,  my  oencung  Knee  i  ooweci; 
My  raised  eyes  fixing  on  a  crimson  cloud, — 
Which  from  its  cleaving  arch,  the  nrandate  bore, 
"Go  shepherd,  lead  thy  much-lov'd  flock  n« 

more  !" — 

My  tremb'ing  lips  nowpress'd  the  soil  I  trod,— 
"  Shepheid,  forsake  thy  flock,  and  be  the  seer 

of  God." 

Uprising  at  the  heavenly  call,  I  laid 
My  crook  and  scrip  beneath  the  spreading  shade, 
"  I  go,  I  go,  my  God  !"  my  answering  spirit  said. 

Thro'  the  rude  stream  I  dash'd,  whose  foaming 

tide, 

Came  whitening  o'er  the  mountain's  hoary  side ; 
But  pressing  on  my  path,  I  heard  with  pain, 
The    approaching    footsteps   of   my  cherished 

train, — 

And  wept,  as  gazing  on  their  fleecy  pride, 
I  thought,  who  now  their  wandering  steps  should 

guide. 

Yet  still,  within,  the  hallow'd  impulse  burn'd, 
And  soon,  its  answering  thoughts  my  heart  re< 

turn'd;— 

•'My  tender  lambs,  my  unfed  flock,  adieu, 
My  God,  a  shepherd  will  pro-vide  for  you, 
One  kind  as  I  have  been,  whose  care  shall  guide 
You,  where  fresh  pastures  smile,  and  fountains 

glide; 


IMITATION  OF  THE  PROPHET  AMOS.         225 

A  hand  unseen,  a  voice  and  purpose  true, 
Divide  you   from    my  charge,  and   me  from 
you." 

What   tho'  my  rustic  speech  and  shepherd's 

dress 

But  ill  a  prophet's  dignity  express,-— 
What  tho'  the  doom  I  bear,  be  dark  with  fear, 
And  grate  repulsive  on  the  guilty  ear, — 
What  tho'    my  heart  beneath  fierce  tortures 

break, 

And  I,  a  martyr's  fiery  death  partake, — 
Yet  He,  who  summoned  from  yon  distant  rock, 
The  rough-clad  man  to  leave  his  simple  flock, 
With  strength  will  gird  him,  for  his  wants  pro 
vide, 
And  quell  the  clamours  of  the  sons  of  pride. 

With  fearless  brow,  I  sought  his  haughty  foes, 
Where  proud  Samaria's  regal  ramparts  rose. 
But  lo  !  the  wasted  suburbs,  parch' d  and  dry 
Spread  a  brown  heith,  to  meet  the  wondering 

eye, 

The  smitten  verdure,  and  the  sterile  plaiu, 
Disclosed  the  march  of  a  devouring  train, 
Before  whose  face,  the  fruitful  earth  was  fair 
Behind,  a  prey  to  famine,  bkak  and  bare. — 
The  wasted  herds,  a  poor,  neglected  train, 
Sought  their  accustom' d  food,  but  sought  in 

vain, — 

15 


226         IMITATION  67  THE  PROPHET  AMOS, 

Some,  mad  with  hunger,  spurn'd  the  flinty  clay 
And  some  in  pangs  of  death,  despairing  lay. 

Then,  low  to  earth  I  bent  my  drooping  head, 
As  one  who  mourns  his  dearest  idol  dead, — 
"  My  God  !"  I  cried,  "  my  God,  arise  and  see, 
Thy  chosen  people's  fearful  misery  ! — 
The  sick  land  mourns  its  harden' d  children's 

sin, 

Thy  wrath  devours  without  and  guilt  within  :— 
Ah  !  who  shall  drooping  Israel's  strength  repair, 
If  thou  dost  cast  him  from  thy  succouring  care  ?" 
An  answering  voice  was  heard, — it  spake  to 

me, — 
God  spake  from  heaven—"  This  judgment  shall 

not  be." 

Soon,  nature's  languid  form,  reviving  fair, 
Sang  praises  to  the  God  who  answers  prayer ; — 
Vanish' d  the  reptile  host, — the  withering  stem 
Spread  forth  anew,  the  bud  reveal'd  its  gem, — 
Deep  mourning  earth,  her  robe  of  joy  resum'd, 
And  spicy  gums,  the  summer  gales  perfum'd. 

A  flame  ! — a  flame ! — its  awful  ravage  spread 
With  quenchless  wrath  and  indignation  dread, 
Fed  on  the  domes  of  pride,  with  angry  sweep 
And  hiss'd  defiance  at  the  \\atery  deep. 
Ah ! — who  shall  stay  its  rage,  or  curb  its  power? 
OHT  God  !— proteci  us, — in  this  dreadful  hour. 


IMITATION  OF  THE  PROPHET  AMOS.         227 

Long    in    my  midnight    prayer,   I  wept    and 

mourn' d, — 
"  This  also  shall  not  be,"— -Jehovah's  voice  re- 

turn'd. 

Repent !     Repent ! — ye  rebel  race,  I  cried, — 
Go  mourn  and  seek  your  God,  ye  sons  of  pride, 
Ye  wound  \he  stranger, — on  the  poor  ye  press,- 
Defraud  the  widow  and  the  fatherless, — 
«*   Ye  scoff  at  justice, — every  sin  ye  know, — 
And  give  to  idols  what  to  God  ye  owe. 
Scorn  and  contempt  upon  his  law  ye  cast, — 
And  think  ye  to  escape  his  righteous  wrath  at 
last? 

Your  palace   shakes  ! — A  sword    in    crimson 

dy'd, 

Is  drawn,  all  reeking,  from  your  prince's  side, — 
Hoarse   cries  of  treason  rend  the  shuddering 

air, — 

Murder  and  strife,  and  foul  revolt  are  there, — 
Woes  tread  on  woes,  and  trembling  pity  weeps 
O'er  your  fall'n  city  and  its  slaughter 'd  heaps. 

Ho ! — ye,   M'ho  sink    on    couches,    soft    with 

down, — 

Ana  all  your  crimes  in  wine  and  music  drown, — 
Who  snatch  the  garment  from  the    shivering 

poor, 
And  wrest  his  pittance,  1o  increase  your  store,— 


228          IMITATION  OF  THE  PROPHET  AMOS. 

You,  first,  the  plagues  and  wants  of  war  shall! 

vex, 
The  captive's  yoke   shall  cling  around  youi 

necks, 

And  you  shall  groan,  in  servitude  and  scorn, 
Like  the  slave  sorrowing  o'er  his  dead  first-born. 
Ah  sinful  nation  ! — of  thy  God  accurst, 
Thy  glory  stain' d,  thy  crown  defil'd  with  dust, 
Go,— hide  thee  in  Mount   Carmel,~dive   the 

deep, — 

Plunge  in  the  slimy  cells  where  serpents  creep, — 
Make  through  the  earth's  dark  dens,  thy  secret 

path, — 
Yet  canst  thou  shun  the  purpose  of  His  wrath  ? 

"Hence,  to  your  woods,"   they  cried,    "your 

herds  and  flocks, — 
Go,   drive  your  few  sheep   o'er    the    rugged 

rocks, — 

Who  bade  you  dare  to  quit  the  lowing  throng  ? 
Who  made  you  judge  of  violence  and  wrong?'' 

"  He,  who  beheld  me,  at  my  humble  toil, — 
Content  and  cheerful,  in  rry  native  soil, — 
He,  who  heholds  you,  from  the  frowning  skies,— 
And  all  youi  wrath  and  arrogance  defies  ; — 
He  call'd  me  from  my  flocks  and  pastures  fair, 
He  gave  the  message,  which  I  boldly  bear, — 
And  which  I  bear  till  death : — so  breathe  your  ire, 
And  wreak  such  vengeance,  as  your  souls  da- 
•ire. 


IMITATION  OP  THE  PKUPhET  AMOS.         229 

Bay, — whose  strong  arm  compos' d  this  won 
drous  frame  ? 

Who  stay'd  the  fury  of  the  rushing  flame  ? 

Who  made  the  mighty  sun  to  know  his  place  ? 

And  fill'd  with  countless  orbs  yon  concave  space  ? 

Who  from  hi-s  cistern  bade  the  waters  flow 

And  on  the  spent  cloud  hung  his  dazzling  bow? 

Who  drives  thro'  realms  immense  his  thunder 
ing  car 

To  far  Orion  and  the  morning  star  ? 

Who  light  to  darkness  turns? — and  night  to 
death  ? 

Gives  the  frail  life  and  gathers  back  the  breath  ? 

Who  gave  this  ponderous  globe,  with  nicest  care 
To  balance  lightly  on  the  fluid  air? 
Who  raised  yon  mountains  to  their  lofty  height? 
Who  speeds  the  whirlwind  in  its  trackless  flight  ? 
Who  darts  thro'  deep  disguise,  his  piercing  ken 
To  read  the  secret  thoughts  and  ways  of  men  ? 
Who  gave  the  morning  and  the  midnight  birth? 
Whose  muffled  step  affrights  the  quaking  earth  ? 
Who  curb'd  the  sea?  and  touch' d  the  rocks  with 
flame? 
,  God  of  Fosts,  is  his  tremendous  name 


DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  OF  A 
RETREAT  FOR  THE  INSANE. 


FEW  have  been  mourned  like  thee.     The  wise 

and  good 

Do  gather  many  weepers  round  their  tomb, 
And  true  affection  makes  her  heart  an  urn 
For  the  departed  idol,  till  that  heart 
Is  ashes.     With  such  sorrow  art  thou  mourned., 
And  more  than  this.     There  is  a  cry  of  woe 
Within  the  halls  of  yon  majestic  dome — 
A  tide  of  grief,  which  reason  may  not  check, 
Nor  faith's  deep  anchor  fathom. 

Straining  eyea 

That  gaze  on  vacancy,  do  search  for  thee, 
Whose  wand  could  put  to  flight  the  fancied  ills 
Of  s;ck  imagination.    The  wrecked  heart 
Keepeth  the  echo  of  thy  soothing  voice 
An  everlasting  sigh  within  its  cells, 
And  morbidly  upon  that  music  feeds. 
Mind's  broken  column  'mid  its  ruins  bears 
Thy   chiselled  features.     Thy  dark  eye   look* 

forth 


DEATH   OF  THE  PRINCIPAL,   ETC.  231 

From  memory's  watch-tower  on  the  phrenzy- 

dream, 

Ruling  its  imagery,  or  with  strange  power 
Controlling  madness,  as  the  shepherd's  harp 
Subdued  the  mocdy  wrath  of  Israel's  king. 
Even  where  the  links  of  thought  and  speech  are 

broke, 

'Mid  that  most  absolute  and  perfect  wreck, 
When  throneless  reason  flies  her  idiot-foe, 
Thou  hast  a  place.     The  fragments  of  the  soul 
Do  bear  thine   mpress — shadowy,  yet  endeared, 
And  multiplied  by  countless  miseries. 
Beside  some  happy  hearth,  where  fire-side  jo^t 
And  renovated  health,  and  heaven-born  hope, 
Swell  high  in  contrast  with  the  m*'  'ac's  cell. 
Thou  art  remembered  by  exulting  hearts, 
With  the  deep  rapture  of  that  lunatic 
Whom  Jesus  healed. 

Still  there's  a  wail  for  thee 
From  those  poor  sufferers,  whom  the  world  hath 

cast 
Out  of  her  company. — 

Thou  wert  their  friend, 
And  in  their  dark  approach  to  idiocy, 
Thy  wasting  midnight  vigil  was  for  them  : 
The  toil,  the  watching,  and  the  stifled  pang 
That  stamped  thee  as  a  martyr,  were  for  them. 
They  could  not  thank    thee,   save  with  that 

strange  shriek 
Which  wounds  the  gentle  ear.    Yet  thou  didst 

walk 


£32  DEATH  Of  THE  PRINCIPAL,   ETC. 

In  uiy  high  ministry  of  love  and  power, 
As  a  magician  'mid  their  spectre-foes 
And  maniac  visions. 

Thou  didst  mark  sublira* 

Death's  angel  sweeping  o'er  thy  studious  page, 
And,  at  his  chill  monition,  laying  down 
The  boasted  treasures  of  philosophy, 
Enrob'd  thyself  in  meekness  as  a  child 
Waiting  the  father's  will. 

And  so  farewell, 

Thou  full  of  love  to  all  whom  God  hath  made. 
Thou  tuned  to  melody,  go  home  !  go  home  ' 
Where  music  hath  no  dissonance,  and  love 
Doth  poise  for  ever  on  her  perfect  wing 


S33 


/,EGH  RICHMOND  AMONG  THE 
RUINS  OF  IONA. 


WHERE  old  lona's  ruins  spread 

In  shapeless  fragments  round, 
And  where  the  crown' d  and  mighty  dead 

Repose  in  cells  profound ; — 
Where  o'er  Columba's  buried  towers 

The  shrouding  ivy  steals, 
And  moans  the  owl  from  cloister' d  bower*, 

A  holy  teacher  kneels. 

Rocks  spring  terrific  to  the  sky, 

Rude  seas  in  madness  storm ; 
And  grimly  frowns  on  Fancy's  eye 

The  Druid's  awful  form, 
With  mutter'd  curse,  and  reeking  blaae, 

And  visage  stern  with  ire  ; — 
Yet  'mid  that  darkly-blended  shade 

Still  bends  the  stranger  sire. 

He  pray?, — the  father  for  his  child 
The  distant  and  the  dear  ; 


234  LEGH   RICHMOND. 

And  where  yon  abbey  o'er  the  wild 

Uprais'd  its  arches  drear, 
When  at  high  mass,  or  vesper  strain 

Rich  voices  fill'd  the  air, 
From  all  that  cowl'd  and  mitred  train 

Rose  there  a  purer  prayer  ? 

His  name  is  on  a  simple  scroll 

With  Christian  ardour  penn'd, 
Which,  thrilling,  warns  the  sinner's  soul 

To  make  his  God  a  friend  ; 
But  when  the  strong  archangel's  breath 

The  ancient  vaults  shall  rend, 
And  starting  from  the  dust  of  death 

Those  waken' d  throngs  ascend, — 

Meek  saint ! — the  boldest  of  the  bold 

That  sword  or  falchion  drew, 
Barons,  whose  fearful  glance  controll'd 

Vassal  and  monarch  too, 
Proud  heroes  of  the  tented  field, 

Kings  of  a  vaunted  line, 
May  wish  their  blood-bought  fame  to  yield 

For  honours  won  like  thine. 


23* 


MARIE  OF  WURTEMBURG 


VVIio  moves  in  beauty,  mid  the  regal  bowerg 

Of  her  dear  native  France  ? 
And  while  the  fairy-footed  hours 

Round  her  all  enchanted  dance, 
With  florist's  care   doth  nurse   meek  virtue's 

flowers  ? 

Who  bends  so  low 
To  hear  the  tale  of  woe, 
And  with  a  cloudles?  sunshine  in  her  breast, 
Findeth  her  highest  joy,  in  making  others  blest  ? 

Genius,  with  inspiration  high, 
Beams  from  her  enkindled  eye, 


*  The  Princess  Marie,  daughter  of  Louis  PhiHippe 
of  France,  and  married  to  Alexander,  the  Duke  of 
Wurtcmburg,  hac  among  other  accomplishments,  a 
great  genius  for  sculpture.  When  the  tidings  of  her 
death  reached  he:  native  realm,  the  Queen  said,  in 
her  grief,  "  I  have  oi>e  daughter  less, — but  Heaven  au 
angel  more." 


236  MARIE   OF   WURTEMBDRO. 

Her  sculptur'd  touch,  how  fine, 
The  graces  o'er  her  chisel  hang,  and  guide  it* 

every  line. 

At  her  creative  power 
Forth  springs  that  warrior  maid 

Who  erst  in  danger's  darkest  hour 
Her  country's  foemen  staid  ; 
Lo  !  Joan  of  Arc,  energic  as  of  old, 
Stands  forth  at  Marie's  call,  and  fires  the  marble 
cold. 

I  hear  rich  music  float, 
Hark  !  'tis  a  marriage  lay, — 
Love  swells  with  joy  the  euraptur'd  note, 

Kings  and  their  realms  are  gay, — 
Bright  pageants  guild  the  auspicious  day, 
While  Germany,  who  wins  the  gem 
Thus  given  from  Gallia's  diadem, 

A  glad  response  doth  pay  ; 
And  Alexander,  with  a  princely  pride, 
Leads  to  his  palace-home  his  all-accomplished 
bride. 

The  skies  of  Italy  are  bright, 
The  olives  green  on  Pisa's  height, 

But  on  that  verdant  shore 
Is  one  whom  health  with  rosf  light 

Revisiteth  no  more. 
How  sad,  beneath  such  genial  shade, 
To  see  the  flower  of  France  reposing  but  to  fade. 


MARIE   CP   -WUIITZMBTJRG-. 


237 


An  infant's  plaint  of  woe  ! 
Alas,  poor  babe  ! — how  dire  thy  fate, — 

A  loss  thou  canst  not  know, 
Whose  drear  extent  each  opening  year  must 

show, 

Meets  thee  at  the  world's  fair  gate : 
Thy  tender  memory  may  not  hold 

The  image  of  that  scene  of  death, 
When  the  stern  spoiler,  all  unmov'd  and  cold, 
Took  thy  sweet  mother's  breath, — 
Thy  father  weeping  by  her  side, 
As,  powerless  on  his  breast,  she  bow'd  her  head 
and  died. 

She  might  not  lull  thee  to  thy  rest, 
Or  longer  linger  here, 
To  dry  thine  infant  tear, 
And  share  the  unimagm'd  zest 

Of  young  maternity. 
But  from  her  home,  amid  the  blest, 

Gazeth  she  not  on  thee  ? 
Doth  she  not  watch  thee  when  soft  slumbers 

steep 

Thy  gentle  soul  in  visions  deep  ? 
Press  on  thy  waking  eyes  an  angel's  KISS, 
And  bid  thee  rise  at  last,  to  yon  pure  realm  of 
bliss? 


ZAMA. 


I  LOOKED,  and  on  old  Zama'sarid  pilain 

Two  chieftains  stood.    At  distance  ranged  theil 

hosts, 
While    they,   with  flashing   eye,  and   gesture 

strong, 

Held  their  high  parley.  One  was  sternly  marked 
With  care  and  hardship.     Still  his  warrior  soul 
Frowned  in  unbroken  might,  as  when  he  sealed. 
In  ardent  boyhood,  the  eternal  vow 
Of  enmity  to  Rome.     The  other  seemed 
Of  younger  years,  and  on  his  noble  brow 
Beauty  with  magnanimity  sat  throned  ; 
And   yet,    methought,  his   darkening   eye-ball 

svd, 
"  Delenda  est  Carthago." 

Brief  they  spake, 

And  parted  as  proud  souls  in  anger  part, 
While  the  wild  shriek  of  trumpets,  and  the  rush 
Of  cohorts  rent  the  air.     I  turned  away. 
The  pomp  of  battle,  and  the  din  of  arms 
May  round  a  period  well ;  but  to  behold 


ZAMA.  239 

The  mortal  struggle,  and  the  riven  shield- 
To  mark  how  nature's  holiest,  tenderest  ties 
Are  sundered — to  recount  the  childless  homes, 
And  sireless  babes,  and  widows'  early  graves. 
Made  by  one  victor-shout,  bids  the  blood  creep 
Cold  through  its  channels. 

Once  again  I  looKed— 

When  the  pure  moon  unveiled  a  silent  scene — 
Silent,  save  \\hen  from  'neath  some  weltering 

pile 
A  dying  war-horse  neighed,   in  whose  gored 

breast 

Life  lingered  stubbornly,  or  some  pale  knight 
Half-raised  his  arm,  awakened  by  the  call 
Of  his  loved  steed,  even  from  the  dream  of  death. 
With    stealthy   step   the    prowling    plunderer 

stalked, 

The  dark- winged  raven  led  her  clamorous  brood 
'  o  their  d  -ead  feast,  and  on  the  shadowy  skirts 
(.     that  dir  -  field,  the  fierce  hyena  rolled 
jf1    teen  mi  evolent  eye. 

Time  sped  its  course, 
Fi  sh  verd  re  mantled  Zama's  fatal  plain, 
Wnile  Cartilage,  with  a  subjugated  knee 
And  crownless  head,  toiled  'mid  the  slaves  of 

Rome. 

Once  more  I  sought  Harniicar's  awful  son— « 
And,  lo  !  an  exiled,  and  despised  old  man, 
Guest  of  Bithynian  perfidy,  did  grasp 


240  ZAMA. 

The  poison-goblet  in  his  withered  hand, 
And  drink  and  die  ! 

Say !  is  this  he  who  rent 
The  bloody  laurel  from  Saguntum's  walls? 
That  eagle  of  the  Alps,  who  through  the  clouds 
Which  wrapp'd  in  murky  folds  their  slippery 

heights, 

Goaded  his  ponderous  elephants  ? — who  roll'd 
Victory's  deep  thunder  o'er  Ticinus'  tide? 
And  mid  the  field  of  C  annas  wav'd  his  sword 
Like  a  destroying  angel  ? 

This  is  he ! 
And  this  is  human  glory. 

God  of  might! 

Gird  with  Thy  shield  our  vacillating  hearts,— 
That  mid  the  illusive  and  bewildering  paths 
Of  this  dim  pilgrimage,  we  may  not  lose 
Both  this  world's  peace, and  the  rewards  of  that 
Which  hath  no  end. 

From  this  unmeasur'd  loss, 
This  wreck  of  all  probationary  hope, 
Defend  us,  Power  Supreme. 


241 


PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


WHAT  led  the  pilgrims  through  the  wild 

On,  to  this  stranger  land, 
Matron  and  maid,  and  fragile  child, 

An  uncomplaining  band  ? 
Deep  streams  their  venturous  course  oppos'd/ 

Dark  wastes  appall' d  their  eye  ; 
What  fill'd  them  on  that  trackless  way, 

With  courage  bold  and  high  ? 

What  cheer'd  them,  when  dire  winter's  wratk 

A  frosty  challenge  threw, 
And  higher  than  their  trembling  roofs 

The  mocking  snow-drift  grew  ? 
When  in  its  wasted  mother's  arms, 

To  famine's  ills,  a  prey, 
The  babe  bereft  of  rosy  charms 

Pin'd  like  a  flower  away  ? 

And  when  the  strong  heart-sickness  came, 

And  memory's  troubled  stream, 
Still  imag'd  forth  fair  England's  homes, 

That  lull'd  their  cradle-dream, — 
16 


242  PILGRIM  FATHEKf. 

When  no  lone  vessel  ploughed  the  wave, 

M  ews  from  her  clime  to  bear, 
What  nobly  bore  the  stricken  soul, 

Above  that  deep  despair  ? 

What  gave  them  strength,  'mid  all  their  toil, 

In  every  hour  of  need 
To  plant  within  this  sterile  soil 

A  glorious  nation's  seed  ? 
The  same  that  nerv'd  them  when  they  sank 

To  rest,  beneath  the  sod, — 
That  rais'd  o'or  death,  the  triumph-song,— 

Prayer,  and  the  faith  of  God. 


243 


"WEEP  NOT.' 


•*  Wtep  not— he  hath  gone  home— thai  little  one." 

MULLNEB, 


GONE  home!  Gone  home  ! — how  many  a  prayei 
of  love, 

Breath'd  out  its  ardour,  to  detain  thee  here, — 
And  Fancy's  dream  its  spell  of  fondness  wove 

To  make  thee  happy,  as  thou  werf,  most  dear. 

Tho'  "ound  thy  lip  the  smile  complacent  play'd, 
And  joy  enwrapp'd  thee  in  her  robe  of  light, — 

Yet  was  it  not  the  thought  of  home,  that  made 
Thy  brow  so  beautiful  ? — thine  eye  so  bright  ? 

The  thought  of  home  !  they  deem'd  it  not,  who 
knew 

Thy  dear  delight,  among  the  garden  flowers, 
Thy  .oving  heart,  to  warm  affection  true, 

And  all  the  gladness  of  thine  infant  hours. 


244  "WEE?  WOT." 

Weep  not :—  'mid  thornless  flowers  that  never 

fade, 

In  bowers  of  bliss  where  raptures  never  cloy, 
Thou  hast  thy  home,  thy  changeless  mansion 

made, 
Our  transient  visitant, — our  angel  bof. 


245 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FORMER 
PUPIL. 


NOT  long  it  seems,  since  she  with  childish  brow 
Pondered  her  lessons, — in  rich  fields  of  thought 
A  ripe  and  ready  student.     Her  clear  mind, 
Precocious,  yet  well-balanced, — her  delight 
In  varied  knowledge, — her  melodious  tone 
Of  elocution,  falling  on  the  ear 
Like  some  rare  harp,  on  which  the  soul  doth 

play, 

Her  sweet  docility,  'twas  mine  to  mark, — 
And  marking,  love. 

Then  came  the  higher  grades 
Of  woman's  duty: — and  the  pure  resolve, 
The  persevering  goodness, — the  warm  growth 
Of  every  household-charity, — the  ties 
That  bind  to  earth,  and  yet  prepare  for  heaven, 
Were  gently  wreath'd  amid  the  clustering  iruita 
Of  ripened  intellect. 

But  soon,  alas ! 

In  search  of  health,  to  distant  scenes  she  turn'd, 
A  patient  traveller,  still,  with  wasted  form, 


246        'ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FORMER  PUPIL. 

Led  on  by  mocking  hope.     And  far  away, 
From  her  lov'd  home,  where  spread  iii  fadeless 

green, 
The  Elm,  which  cheer'd  her  sainted  grandsire'a 

gaze, 
(Like  Mamre's  Oak,  o'er  Abraham's  honoured 

head) 

Far  from  the  chamber,  where  her  cradle  rock'd, 
And  where  she  hop' d  her  couch  of  death  might  be 
The  Spoiler  found  her. 

The  long  gasp  was  hers,— 
But  the  meek  smile  was  her  Redeemer's  gift, 
His  victor-token.     And  the  bosom-friend 
Took  that  bequest  into  his  bursting  heart, 
As  in  the  sleepless  ministry  of  love, 
He  stood  beside  her,  in  that  parting  hour. 

See'st  thou  the  desolate,  on  his  return  ? — 

Know'st  thou  the  sadness  of  his  lonely  way  ? — 
Deep  silence,  where  the  tender  word  had  been,-~ 
And  at  the  midnight  watch  or  trembling  dawn, 
The  sullen  echo  of  the  hearse-like  wheel, 
Avoiding  every  haunt,  and  pleasant  bower 
Where  the  dear  invalid  so  late  rcclin'd, 
Lest,  some  light  question  of  a  stranger's  tongue 
Should  harrow  up  the  soul.    Know'st  thou  the 

pang 
When  his  reft  home,  first  met  his  mournful 

view  ? 
——What  brings  he  to  his  children  ? 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FORMER  PUPIL.        247 

Yon  fair  boy 
Who  at  the  casement  stands  and  weeps, — can 

tell,— 

And  he,  who  cannot  tell, — that  younger  one, 
Whose  boundless  loss  steals  like  some  strange 

eclipse 

Over  a  joyous  planet, — and  the  babe 
Stretching  its  arms  for  her  who  comes  no  more. 
Oh  !  if  the  blest  in  heaven,  take  note  of  earth, 
Will  not  the  mother's  hovering  spirit  brood 
O'er  those  fair  boys  ? 

It  is  not  ours  to  say, — 
We  only  know  that  if  a  Christian's  faith 
Hath  changeless  promise  of  the  life  to  come, 
That  heritage  is  hers.    And  so  we  lay 
Her  body  in  the  tomb, — with  praise  to  God 
For  her  example, — and  with  prayer,  to  close 
Our  time  of  trial,  in  such  trust  serene. 


248 


THE  SLEEPING  INFANT. 


SWEET  infant,  beautiful  as  light, 
That  on  the  snow-drop's  bosom  glowa, 

When  scap'd  from  wrathful  winter's  might, 
It  trembles  through  incumbent  snows, — 

Amid  thy  cradle  sleep  we  watcn 

The  varying  thought  that  faintly  gleams, 

As  tho'  we  fondly  hop'd  to  catch 
The  angel- whisuer  of  thy  dreams. 

The  angel-whisper .     Tell  us  what 
Is  breath'd  from  that  ce.estial  clime. 

Thou,  nearer  to  its  white-winged  host 
Than  we  who  tread  the  thorns  of  time  :—•  • 

Thou  canst  not  tell, — no  words  are  thine,-  • 
But  the  pure  smile  that  lights  thy  brow 

IB  sure  the  language  of  the  skies, — 
Oh  koep  it  still  unchanged  —as  now. 


249 


THE  ORPHAN'S  TRUST. 


"When  my  father  and  my  mother  forsake  me,tbei 
Jbe  Lord  will  take  me  up."— DAVID. 


HE,  who  around  my  infant  sleps, 

A  firm  protection  threw, 
Whose  prayers  upon  my  head  distill' d, 

Like  summer's  holy  dew, — 
The  staff' hath  fallen  from  his  hand, 

The  mantle  from  his  breast. 
And  underneath  the  church-yard  mould 

He  takes  a  quiet  rest. 

And  she,  who  at  each  cradle-moan, 

At  every  childish  iear, 
At  every  fleeting  trace  of  pain 

Stood,  full  of  pity  near  ; — 
Who  to  her  fondly-cherish'd  child 

Such  deep  affection  bore, 
She  too,  hath  given  the  parting  kiss, 

And  must  return  no  more. 


250  THE  ORPHAN  §  TRUST. 

And  therefore,  unto  Thee  I  turn, 

The  never-changing  Friend, 
Whose  years  eternal  cannot  fail, 

Whose  mercies  have  no  end  ;— • 
Thro'  all  my  pilgrim  path  below, 

A  Father  deign  to  be, 
And  show  that  mother's  tender  lot 

Who  hath  forsaken  me. 


251 


THE  ORDINATtOX 


(Jp  to  thy  Master's  work  !  for  thou  art  sworn 
To  do  his  bidding,  till  the  hand  of  death 
Strike  off  thine  armour.     Thy  deep  vow  denies 
To  hoard  earth's  gold,  or  truckle  for  its  smile, 
Or  bind  its  blood-stain'd  laurel  on  thy  brow. 

-A  nobler  field  is  thine.  —  The    soul!    th« 

soul  !— 

That  is  thy  province, — that  mysterious  thing, 
Which  hath  no  limit  from  the  walls  of  sense, — • 
No  chill  from  hoary  time, — with  pale  decay 
No  fellowship, — but  shall  stand  forth  unchang'd, 
Unscath'd  amid  the  resurrection  fires, 
To  bear  its  boundless  lot  of  good  or  ill. 
And  dost  thou  take  authority  to  aid 
This  pilgrim-essence  to  a  throne  in  heaven 
Among  the  glorious  harpers,  and  the  ranks 
Of  radiant  seraphim  and  cherubim  ? 

Thy  business  is  with  that  which  cannot  die, — 
Whose  subtle  thought  the  untravell'd  universe 


252  THE  ORDINATION. 

Spans  on  swift  wing,   from    slumbering  ages 

sweeps 
Their   buried  treasures,    scans    the    vault    of 

heaven, 

Poises  the  orbs  of  light,  points  boldly  out 
Their  trackless  pathway  through  the  blue  ex 

panse,  ^ 

Foils  the  red  comet  in  its  flaming  speed, 
And  aims  to  read  the  secrets  of  its  God. 
•—Yet  thou,  a  son  of  clay,  art  privileg'd 
To  make  thy  Saviour's  image  brighter  stil, 
In  this  majestic  soul ! 

Give  God  the  praise 

That  thou  art  counted  worthy, — and  lay  down 
Thy  lip  in  dust. — Bethink  thee  of  its  loss, 
For  He  whose  sighs  on  Olivet,  whose  pangs 
On  Calvary,  best  speak  its  priceless  worth, 
Saith  that  it  may  be  lost.     Should  it  sin  on 
Till  the  last  hour  of  grace  and  penitence 
Is  meted  out,  ah  !  what  would  it  avail 
Though  the  whole  world,  with  all  its  pomp,  and 

power, 
And  plumage,  were  its  own  ?     What  were  its 

gain 

If  the  brief  hour-glass  of  this  life  should  fail, 
And  leave  remorse  no  grave, — despair,  no  hope? 

Up,  blow  thy  trumpet,  sound  the  loud  alarm 
To  those  who  sleep  in  Zion.     Boldly  warn 
To  'scape  their  cDnrlemnation,  o'er  whose  head 


THE  GRDINATICtf.  253 

Age  after  age  of  misery  hath  roll'd, 

Who  from  their  prison-house  look  up  and  see 

Heaven's  golden  gate,     and  to  its  watchmen 

cry, 
"  What  of  the  night?"  while  the  dread  answer 

falls 

With  fearful  echo  down  the  Tnfathom'd  depths : 
"Eternity!" 

Should  one  of  those  lost  souls 
Amid  its  tossings  utter  forth  thy  name, 
As  one  who  might  have  plu.ck'd  it  from  the  pit, 
Thou  man  of  God !  would  there  not  be  a  burst 
Of  tears  in  heaven? 

O,  live  the  life  of  prayer, 
The  life  of  faith  in  the  rnoek  Son  of  God, 
The  life  of  tireless  labour  for  His  sake  : 
So  may  the  angel  of  the  covenant,  bring 
Thee  to  thy  home  in  bliss,  with  many  a  gena 
To  glow  for  ever  in  thy  Mastei's  crown. 


254 


THE  HOST  OF  GIDEON. 


OF  the  crystal  stream. et  taste, 
Warriors,  in  your  eager  haste,— 
Here  refresh  your  wearied  line, 
Ere  in  battle-strife  ye  join. 
— Some  upon  the  verdant  strand 
Scoop  the  water  with  their  hand, 
Others,  on  their  knees  supine, 
For  a  deeper  draught  incline. 
— But  their  chieftain  standing  by, 
Mark'd  them  with  an  eagle-eye, 
And  his  heaving  bosom  fir'd, 
As  he  spake  the  doom  inspir'd. 

"By  the  few,  who  scoop'd  the  wav8| 
Shall  our  God,  his  Israel  save, — 
On, — ye  chosen, — on  with  me, — 
Yours  the  toil, — the  victory." 

Small  the  band,  yet  on  they  pres* 
Heaven's  own  courage  in  their  b^aai, 
And  the  strong  and  haughty  foe. 
Covering  all  the  vale  below, — 
At  their  onset  hold  and  high, 
At  their  trumpet's  fearful  cry. 


THE  BMT  OF  S1DEON.  255 

Prince,  and  chariot,  turn'd  and  fled, 
Helpless  in  that  hour  of  dread. 

Soldiers  of  a  glorious  head, 
While  this  leagur'd  earth  ye  tread, 
Lightly  taste  of  Pleasure's  wave,— 
Bow  not  down  like  Passion's  slave, 
Lest,  while  others  watchful  otand, 
Ye  forget  the  promis'd  land, 
Lest,  thy  Leader's  voice  decree 
Joy  to  them,  and  shame  to  tta& 


256 


FAREWELL. 


farewell !  i?  hath  a  sombre  tons. 

The  lip  is  stow  to  take  it, 
It  seemeth  like  the  willow's  moaik 

When  autumn  winds  awake  it : 
It  seerneth  like  the  distant  sea 

Round  some  lone  islet  sighing, 
And  yet  thou  say'st  it  unto  me, 

And  wait'st  for  my  replying. 

Farewell !  thou  fly'st  from  Winter's  wrath 

'Mid  sunny  bowers  to   hide  thee, 
May  freshest  roses  deck  thy  path, 

Yet  bring  no  thorn  to  chide  thee  ; 
And  may'st  thou  find  that  better  land 

Where  no  bright  dream  is  broken, 
No  flower  shall  fade  in  beauty's  hand. 

And  no  farewell  be  spoken. 


L_ 


THE  DREAM. 


TWAS  summer  eve ;  the  changeful  beams  uti.l 

play'd 

On  the  fir-bark  and  through  the  beechen  shade  ; 
Still  with  soft  crimson  glow'd  each  floating  cloud, 
Still  the  stream  glitter'd  where  the  willow  bow'd 
Still  the  pale  moon  sate  silent  and  alone, 
Nor  yet  the  stars  had  rallied  rouud  her  throne  ; 
Those   diamond  courtiers,  who,  while  yet  the 

West 

Wears  the  red  shield  above  his  dying  breast,. 
Dare  not  assume  the  loss  they  all  desire, 
Nor  pay  their  homage  to  the  fainter  fire, 
But  wait  in  trembling  till  the  Sun's  fair  light 
Fading,  shall  leave  them  free  to  welcome  night! 

So  when  some  Chief,  whose  name  through 

realms  afar     . 

Was  still  the  watchword  of  successful  war, 
Met  by  the  fatal  hour  which  waits  for  all, 
Is,  on  the  field  he  rallied,  forced  to  fall, 
The    conquerors  pause   to  watch  his  parting 

breath, 
Awed  by  the  terrors  of  that  mighty  death: 


14  THE  DREAM.  « 

Nor  dared  the  meed  of  victory  to  claim, 
Nor  lift  the  standard  to  a  meaner  name, 
Till  every  spark  of  soul  hath  ebb'd  away, 
And  leaves  what  was  a  hero,  common  clay, 

Oh  !  Twilight !  Spirit  that  dost  render  birt/i 
To  dim   enchantments  ;   melting  Heaven  with 

Earth, 

Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A  softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams; 
Thy  hour  to  all  is  welcome  !     Faint  and  sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant's  homeward 

feet, 

Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil, 
Sees  the  low  sunset  gild  the  cultured  soil, 
And,  tho'  such  radiance  round  him  brightly 

glows, 
Marks   the   small    spark  his   cottage  window 

throws. 

Still  as  his  heart  forestals  his  weary  pace, 
Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face, 
Recalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life, 
His  rosy  children,  and  his  sunburnt  wife, 
To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labor  spent. 
The  rich  man's  chariot  hath  gone  whirling  past, 
And  those  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  all  that  show  of  pride, 
Then  to  their  tasks  turn'd  quietly  aside  ; 
But  him  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home, 
Fond  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come; 
The  fagot  sent  for  when  ihe  fire  grew  dim, 


THE  DREAM.  15 

The  frugal  meal  prepared,  are  all  for  him  ; 
For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy 
For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  jcy, 
For  him. — who  plods  his  sauntering  way  along, 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song  ! 

Dear  art  thou  to  the  lover,  thou  sweet  light, 
Fair  fleeting  sister  of  the  mournful  night  I 
As  in  impatient  hope  he  stands  apart, 
Companion'd  only  by  his  beating  heart, 
And  with  an  eager  fancy  oft  beholds 
The  vision  of  a  white  robe's  fluttering  folds 
Flit  through  the  grove,  and  gain  the  open  mead. 
True  to  the  hour  by  loving  hearts  agreed  ! 
At  length  she  comes.    The  evening's  holy  grace 
Mellows  the  glory  of  her  radiant  face  ; 
The  curtain  of  that  daylight  faint  and  pale 
Hangs  round  her  like  the  shrouding  of  a  veil ; 
As,  turning  with  a  bashful  timid  thought, 
From  the  dear  welcome  she  herself  hath  sought, 
Her  shadowy  profile  drawn  against  the  sky 
Cheats,  while  it  charms,  his  fond  adoring  eye. 

Oh  !  dear  to  him,  to  all,  since  first  the  flowerd 
Of  happy  Eden's  consecrated  bowers 
Heard  the  low  breeze  along  the  branches  play, 
And  God's  voice  bless  the  cool  hour  of  the  day. 
For  though  that  glorious  Parndise  be  losf, 
Though  earth  by  blighting  storms  be  roughly 

cross'd, 

Though  the  long  curse  demands  the  tax  of  sin 
And  the  day's  sorrows  with  the  day  begin, 


16  THE  DREAM. 

That  hour,  once  sacred  to  God's  presence,  still 

Keeps  itself  calmer  from  the  touch  of  ill, 

The  holiest  hour  of  Earth.     Then  toil  doth 

cease — 

Then  from  the  yoke  the  oxen  find  release — 
Then  man  rests  pausing  from  his  many  cares, 
And  the  world  teems   with   children's   sunset 

prayers ! 

Then  innocent  things  seek  out  their  natural  rest, 
The   babe   sinks  slumbering    on   its  mother's 

breast ; 

The  birds  beneath  their  leafy  covering  creep, 
Yea,  even  the  flowers  fold  up  their  buds  in  sleep  , 
And  angels,  floating  by,  on  radiant  wings, 
Hear  the  low  sound  the  breeze  of  evening  brings, 
Catch  the  sweet  incense  as  it  floats  along, 
The  infant's  prayer,  the  mother's  cradle-song, 
And  bear  the  holy  gifts  to  worlds  afar, 
As  things  too  sacred  for  this  fallen  star. 

At  such  an  hour,  on  such  a  summer  night, 
Silent  and  calm  in  its  transparent  light, 
A  widow'd  parent  watch'd  her  slumbering  child, 
On  whose  young  face  the  sixteenth  summer 

smiled. 
Fair  was  the   face    she  watch'd!     Nor   less, 

because 

Beauty's  perfection  seemed  to  make  a  pause, 
And  wait,  on  that  smooth  brow,  some  further 

touch, 
Some  spell  from  time, — the  great  magician,- 

such 


THE  DRBAM.  17 

A.B  calls  the  closed  bud  out  of  hidden  g'ioom, 
And  bids  it  wake  to  glory,  light  ind  bloom. 
Girlish  as  yet,  but  with  the  gent.e  grace 
Of  a  young  fawn  in  its  low  resting-place, 
Her  folded  limbs  were  lying  :  from  her  hand 
A  group   of  wild  flowers — Nature's  brightest 

band, 

Of  all  that  laugh  along  the  summer  fields, 
Of  all  the  sunny  hedge-row  freely  yields, 
Of  all  that  in  the  wild- wood  darkly  hide, 
Or  ort  the  thyme-bank  wave  in  breezy  pride,— 
Show'd  that  the  weariness  which  closed  in  sleep 
So  tranquil,  child-like,  innocent,  and  deep, 
Nor  festal  gaiety,  nor  toilsome  hours, 
Had  brought ;    but,   like  a  flower  among  the 

flowers, 

She  had  been  wandering  'neath  a  summer  sky, 
Youth  on  her  lip  and  gladness  in  her  eye, 
Twisting  the  wild  rose  from  its  native  thorn, 
And  the  blue  scabious  from  the  sunny  corn  ;• 
Smiling  and  singing  like  a  spirit  fair 
That  walk'd  the  world,  but  had  no  dwelling 

there. 

And  still  (as  though  their  faintly-scented  breath 
Preserv'd  a  meek  fidelity  in  death) 
Each  late  imprison'd  blossom  fondly  lingers 
Within  the  touch  of  her  unconscious  fingers, 
Though,  languidly  unclasp'd,  that  hand  no  mor* 
Guards  its  possession  of  the  rifled  store. 

So  wearily  she  lay ;  so  sweetly  slept ; 
So  hy  her  side  fond  watch  the  mother  kept ; 


J8  THE  DREAM. 

And,  as  above  her  gentle  child  she  bent, 
So  like  they  seem'd  in  form  and  lineament, 
You  miht  have  deem'd  her  face  its 


gave 

To  the  clear  mirror  of  a  fountain's  wave  ; 
Only  in  this  they  differ'd  ;  that,  while  one 
Was  warm  and  radiant  as  the  sumrnc-r  sun, 
The  other's  smile  had  more  a  moonlight  play 
For  many  tears  had  wept  its  glow  away  ; 
Yet  was  she  fair  ;  of  loveliness  so  true, 
That  time,  which  faded,  never  could  subdue; 
And  though  the  sleeper,  like  a  half-blown  rose 
Show'd  bright  as  angels  in  her  soft  repose, 
Though  bluer  veins  ran  through  each  snowy  lid, 
Curtaining   sweet  eyes,   by   long  dark  lashei 

hid  — 

Eyes  that  as  yet  had  never  learnt  to  weep, 
But   woke    up    smiling,   like   a  child's,    from 


Though  fainter  lines  were  pencill'd  on  the  brow, 
Which  cast  soft  shadow  on  the  orbs  below ; 
Though  deeper  color  flush'd  her  youthful  cheek, 
In  its  smooth  curve  more  joyous  and  less  meek, 
And  fuller  seem'd  the  small  and  crimson  mouth, 
With  teeth  like  those  that  glitter  in  the  south— • 
She  had  but  youth's  superior  brightness,  such 
As  the  skill'd  painter  gives  with  flattering  touch 
When  he  would  picture  every  lingering  grace 
Which  once  shone  brighter  in  some  copied  face  ; 
And  it  was  compliment,  whene'er  she  smiled, 
To  say,  "  Thou'rt  like  thy  mother,  my  fair 
child!" 


THE  DREAM.  19 

Sweet  is  the  image  of  the  brooding  dove!— 
Holy  as  Heaven  a  mother's  tender  love  ! 
The  love  of  many  prayers  and  many  tears, 
Which  changes  not  with  dim  declining  years— 
The  only  love  which  on  this  teeming  earth 
Asks  no  return  from  Passion's  wayward  birth  ; 
The  only  love  that,  with  a  touch  divine, 
Displaces  from  the  heart's  most  secret  shrine 
The  idol  SELF.     Oh  !  prized  beneath  thy  due 
When  Kfe's  untried  affections  all  are  new- 
Love,  from  whose  calmer  hope  and  holier  rest 
(Like  a  fledged  bird,  impatient  of  the  nest) 
The  human  heart,  rebellious,  springs  to  seek 
Delights  more  vehement,  in  ties  more  weak  ; 
How  strange  to  us  appears,  in  after-life, 
That  term  of  mingled  carelessness  and  strife, 
When  guardianship  so  gentle  gall'd  our  pride, 
When  it  was  holiday  to  leave  thy  side, 
When,  with  dull  ignorance  that  would  not  learn, 
We  lost  those  hours  that  never  can  return — 
Hours,  whose  most  sweet  communion  Mature 

meant 

Should  be  in  confidence  and  kindness  spent, 
That  we  (hereafter  mourning)  might  believe 
In  human  faith,  though  all  around  deceive  ; 
Might  weigh  against  the  sad  and  startling  crowd 
Of'lls  which  wound  the  weak  and  chill  the  proud, 
Of  woes  'neath  which  (despite  of  stubborn  will, 
Philosophy's  vain  boast,  and  erring  skill) 
The  strong  heart  downward  like  a  willow  bends, 
Failure  of  love, — and  treachery  of  friends,— 
Our  recollections  of  the  undented, 


20  THE  DREAM. 

The  sainted  <ie,  of  parent  and  of  child! 

Oh  !  happy  4ays  !   Oh  years  that  glided  by, 
Scarce  chronickl  by  one  poor  passing  sigh  ! 
When  the  dark  s*orm  sweeps  past  us,  and  the 

soul 
Struggles   with  faint'u:g  strength  to  reach  the 

goal; 

When  the  false  baits  that  lured  us  only  cloy, 
What   would  we   give   to  grasp  your  vanished 

joy! 
From  the  cold  quicksands  of  Life's  treacherous 

shore 

The  backward  light  our  anxious  eyes  explore, 
Measure  the  miles  our  wandering  feet  have  come( 
Sinking  heart-weary,  far  away  from  home, 
Recall  the  voice  that  whisper'd  love  and  peace 
The  smile  that  bid  our  early  sorrows  cease, 
And  long  to  bow  our  grieving  heads,  and  weep 
Low  on  the  gentle  breast  that  lull'd  us  first  to 

sleep  ! 

Ah !  bless' d  are  they  for  whom  'mid  all  their 

pains 

That  faithful  and  unalter'd  love  remains  ; 
Who,  Life  wreok'd  round  them, — hunted  from 

their  rest, — 

And,  by  all  else  forsaken  or  distress'd, — 
Claim,  in  one  heart,  their  sanctuary  end  shrine- 
As  I,  my  Mother,  claim'd  my  place  in  thine  ! 

Oft,  since  that  hour,  in  sadness  I  retrace 
My  childhood's  vision  of  thy  cairn  sweet  face 


THE  DREAM.  21 

Oft  gee  thy  form,  its  mournful  beauty  shrouded 

In  thy  black  weeds,  and  coif  of  widow's  woe  ; 
Thy  dark  expressive  eyes  all  dim  and  clouded 

By  that  deep  wretchedness  the  lonely  know: 
S  ifling  thy  grief,  to  hear  some  weary  task 

Conn'd  by  unwilling  lips,  with  listless  air, 
Hoarding  thy  means,  lest  future  need  might  ask 

More   than   the  widow's  pittance  then  could 

spare. 
Hidden,  forgotten  by  the  great  and  gay, 

Enduring  sorrow,  not  by  fits  and  starts, 
But  the  long  self-denial,  day  by  day, 

Alone  amidst  thy  brood  of  careless  hearts! 
Striving  to  guide,  to  teach,  or  to  restrain, 

The  young  rebellious  spirits  crowding  round, 
Who  saw  not,  knew  not,  felt  not  for  thy  pain, 

And   could  not  comfort — yet  had  power  to 

wound  ! 
A.h  !    how  my  selfish  heart,  which  since  hath 

grown 

Familiar  with  deep  trials  of  its  own, 
With  riper  judgment  looking  to  the  past, 
Regrets  the  careless  days  that  flew  so  fast, 
Stamps  with  remorse  each  wasted  hour  of  time, 
And  darkens  every  folly  into  crime  ! 

Warriors  and  statesmen  have    their  meed  of 
praise, 

And  what  they  do  or  suiter  men  record  ; 
But  the  long  sacrifice  of  woman's  days 

Passes  without  a  thought — without  a  word  ; 
And  many  a  holy  struggle  for  the  sake 


83  THE  DREAM. 

Of  duties  sternly,  faithfully  fulfilled— 
For  which  the  anxious  mind  must  watch  and 

wake, 
And    the    strong    feelings    of  the   heart  be 

still'd,— 

Goes  by  unheeded  as  the  summer  wind, 
And  leaves  no  memory  and  no  trace  behind  ! 
Yet,  it  may  be,  more  lofty  courage  dwells 
In  one  meek  heart  which  braves  an  adverse 

fate, 

Than  his,  whose  ardent  soul  indignant  swells 
Warm'd  by  the  fight,  or  cheer'd  through  high 

debate: 

The  Soldier  dies  surrounded  ;  could  he  live 
Alone  to  suffer,  and  alone  to  strive  ? 

Answer,  ye  graves,  whose  suicidal  gloom 
Shows  deeper  horror  than  a  common  tomb  ! 
Who  sleep  within  ?  The  men  who  would  evade 
An  unseen  lot  of  which  they  felt  afraid. 
Embarrassment   of  means,    which   work'd  an 
noy, — 

A  past  remorse,— a  future  blank  of  joy,— 
The  sinful  rashness  of  a  blank  despair. — 
These  were  the  strokes  which  sent  your  victims 
there. 

In  many  a  village  churchyard's  simple  grave, 
.Where  all  unmark'd  the  cypress  branches  wave 
In  many  a  vault  where  Death  could  only  claim; 
The  brief  inscription  of  a  woman's  name; 
Of  different  ranks,  and  different  degrees, 
From  daily  labor  to  a  life  of  ease* 


THE  DREAM.  23 

(From  the  rich  wife  who  through  the  weary  day 
Wept  in  her  jewels,  griefs  unceasing  prey, 
To  the  poor  soul  who  trudged  o'er  marsh  and 

moor, 

And  with  her  baby  begg'd  from  door  to  door, — ) 
Lie   hearts,    which,   ere   they   found   that  last 

release, 

Had  lost  all  memory  of  the  blessing  "  Peace  ;' 
Hearts,  whose  long  struggle   through  unpitied 

years 
None  saw  but  Him  who  marks  the  mourner's 

tears  ; 

The  obscurely  noble  !  who  evaded  not 
The  woe  which  He  had  will'd  should  be  their 

lot, 
But  nerved  themselves  to  bear  ! 

Of  such  art  thou, 

My  Mother  !     With  thy  calm  and  holy  brow, 
And  high  devoted  heart,  which  suffer' d  still 
Unmurmuring,  through  each  degree  of  ill. 
And,  because  Fate  hath  will'd  that  mine  should 

be 

A  Poet's  soul  (at  least  in  my  degree,) — 
And  that  my  verse  would  faintly  shadow  forth 
What  I  have  seen  of  pure  unselfish  worth, — 
Therefore  I  speak  of  Thee  ;  that  those  who  read 
Tha'  trust  in  woman,  which  is  still  my  creed, 
Thy  early-widow'd  image  may  recall 
And  greet  thy  nature  as  the  type  of  all ! 

Enough  !     With  eyes  of  fond  unwearied  lovo 
The  Mother  of  my  story  watch' d  above 


24  THE  DREAM. 

Her  sleeping  child  ;  and,  as  she  views  tke  grace 

And  blushing  beauty  of  that  girlish  face, 

Her  thoughts  r^am  back  through  change  of  time 

and  tide, 
Since  first  Heaven  sent  the  blessing  by  her  side. 

In  that  sweet  vision  she  again  receives 

The  snow-white  cradle,  where  that  tiny  head 
Lay,  like  a  small  bud  folded  in  its  leaves, 

Foster'd  with  dew  by  tears  of  fondness  shed  ; 
Each  infantine  event,  each  dangerous  hour 

Which  pass'd  with  threatening  o'er  its  fragile 

form, 
Her  hope,  her  anguish,  as  the  tender  flower 

Bloom'd  to  the  sun,  or  sicken'd  in  the  storm, 
In  memory's  magic  mirror  glide  along, 

And  scarce   she    notes   the   different   scene 

around, 
And  scarce  her  lips  refrain  the  cradle-song 

Which  sooth' d  that  infant  with   its   lulling 

sound  ! 
But  the  dream  changes  ;  quiet  years  roll  on  ; 

That  dawn  of  frail  existence  fleets  away, 
And  she  beholds  beneath  the  summer  siui 

A  blessed  sight ;  a  little  child  at  play. 
The  soft  light  falls  upon  its  golden  hair, 

And  shows  a  brow  intelligently  mild  ; 
No  more  a  cipher  in  this  world  of  care, 

Love  cheers  and  chides  that  happy  conscioui 

child. 
No  more  unheeding  of  her  watchful  love, 

Pride  to  excel,  its  docile  spirit  stirs ; 


THE  DREAM.  25 

Regret  and  hope  its  tiny  bosom  mcve, 

And  looks  of  fondness  brightly  answer  hers; 

O'er  the  green  meadow,  and  the  broomy  hill, 
In  restless  joy  it  bounds  and  darts  along  ; 

Or  through  the  breath  of  evening,  low  and  still, 
Carols  with  mirthful  voice  its  welcome  song. 

Again  the  vision  changes ;  from  her  view 

The  CHILD'S  dear  love  and  antic  mirth  are 

gone; 
But,  in  their  stead,  with  cheek  of  rose-leaf  hue, 

And  fair  slight  form,  and  low  and  silvery  tone, 
Rises  the  sweetest  spirit  Thought  can  call 

From    memory's   distant  worlds — the    fairy 

GIRL  ; 
Whose  heart  her  childish  pleasures  still  enthrall, 

Whose  unbound  hair  still  floats  in  careless  curl, 
But  in  whose  blue  and  meekly  lifted  eyes, 

And  in  whose  shy,  though  sweet  and  cordial 

smile, 
And  in  whose  changeful  blushes,  dimly  rise 

Shadows  and  lights  that  were  not  seen  ere- 

while  : 
Shadows  and  lights  that  speak  of  woman's  love , 

Of  all  lhat  makes  or  mars  her  fate  below  ; 
Mysterious  prophecies,  which  Time  mustprovtf 

More  bright  in  glory,  or  more  dark  with  woe  ' 
And  that  soft  vision  also  wanders  by, 

Melting  in  fond  and  innocent  smiles  away, 
Till  the  loved  REAL  meets  the  watchful  eye 

Of  her  who  thus  recall'd  a  former  day  ; 
The  gen'le  daughter,  for  whose  precious  sake 


26  THE  DREAM. 

Her   widow'd  heart  had  struggled  with  ita 

pain, 

And  still  through  lonely  grief  refused  to  break, 
Because  that  tie  to  Earth  did  yet  remain. 

I  Now,  as  she  fondly  gazed,  a  few  meek  tears 

Stole  down  her  cheek  ;  for  she  that  slumber'd 

there, 

The  beautiful,  the  loved  of  many  years, 
A   bride   betroth'd  must  leave  her  fostering 

care; 

Woo'd  in  another's  home  apart  to  dwell — 
Oh  !   might  that  other  love  but  half  as  well  \ 

As  if  the  mournful  wish  had  touch'd  her  heart, 
The   slumbering  maiden   woke,   with   sudden 

start ; 

Turn'd,  with  a  dazzled  and  intense  surprise, 
On  that  fond  face  her  bright,  bewilder'd  eyes  ; 
Gazed  round  on  each  familiar  object  near, 
As  though  she  doubted  yet  if  sense  was  clear , 
Cover'd  her  brow  and  sigh'd,  as  though  to  wake 
Had  power  some  spell  of  happy  thought  to  break; 
Then  murmur'd,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone, 
"  Oh  !  is  that  blessed  dream  for  ever  gone  ?" 

I 

Strange  is  the  power  of  dreams  !    Who  hath 

not  felt, 

When  in  the  light  such  visions  melt, 
How  the  veil'd  soul,  though  struggling  to  be  freet 
Ruled  by  that  deep  unfathom'd  mystery, 
Wakes,  haunted  by  the  thoughts  of  good  or  ill 
Whose  shadowy  influence  pursues  us  still  ? 


THE  DREAM.  2? 

Sometimes  romorse  doth  weigh  our  spirits 

down  ; 
Some  crime  committed  earns  Heaven's  angriest 

frown  ; 

Some  awful  sin,  in  which  the  tempted  heart 
Hath  scarce,  perhaps,  forborne  its  waking  part, 
Brings  drearrfe  of  judgment;  loud  the  thunders 

roll, 
The   heavens   shrink  blacken'd  like  a  flaming 

scroll ; 

We  faint,  we  die,  beneath  the  avenging  rod, 
And  vainly  hide  from  our  offended  God. 
For  oh  !   though  fancy  change  our  mortal  lot, 
And  rule   our  slumbers,  CONSCIENCE  sleepeth 

not  ; 

That  strange  sad  dial,  by  its  own  true  light, 
Points  to   our  thoughts,   how   dark  soe'er  the 

night, 

Still  by  our  pillow  watchful  guard  it  keeps, 
And  bids  the  sinner  tremble  while  he  sleeps. 

Sometimes,   with  fearful  dangers  doom'd  to 

cope, 

'Reft  of  each  wild  and  visionary  hope, 
Stabb'd   with  a  thousand  wounds,   we  struggle 

still, 

The  hand  that  tortures>  powerless  to  kill. 
Sometimes  'mid  ocean  storms,  in  fearful  strife, 
We  stern  the  wave,  and  shrieking,  gasp  for  life, 
While  crowding  round  us,  faces  rise  and  gleam, 
Some  known  and  loved,  some,  pictures  of  our 

dream 


28  THE  DREAM. 

High  on  the  buoyant  waters  wildly  toss'd- 
Low  in  its  foaming  caverns  darkly  lost — 
Those  flitting  forms  the  dangerous  hour  partake, 
Cling  to  our  aid,  or  suffer  for  our  sake. 
Conscious  of  present  life,  the  slumbering  soul 
Still  floats  us  onward,  as  the  billows  roll, 
Till,  snatch' d  from  death,  we  seem  to  touch  the 

strand, 

Rise  on  the  shoreward  wave,  and  dash  to  land  ! 
Alone  we  come:  the  forms  whose  wild  array 
Gleam'd  round  us  while  we    struggled,   fade 

away — 

We  know  not,  reck  not,  who  the  danger  shared, 
But,  vaguely  dreaming,  feel  that  we  are  spared. 

Sometimes  a  grief,  of  fond  affection  born, 
Gnaws  at  our  heart,  and  bids  us  weep  till  morn; 
Some  anguish,  copied  from  our  waking  fears, 
Wakes  the  eternal  fount  of  human  tears, 
Sends  us  to  watch  some  vision'd  bed  of  death, 
Hold  the  faint  hand,  and  catch  the  parting  breath, 
Where  those  we  prized  the  most,  and  loved  the 

best, 

Seem  darkly  sinking  to  the  grave's  long  rest  ; 
Lo  !  in  our  arms  they  fade,  they  faint,  they  die, 
Before  our  eyes  the  funeral  train  sweeps  by ! 
We  hear  the  orphan's  sob — the  widow's  wail— 
O'er  our  dim  senses  woeful  thoughts  prevail, 
Till,  with  a  burst  of  grief,  the  spell  we  break, 
And,  weeping  for  th'  imagined  loss,  awake. 

Ah  me!    from  dreams  like  these  aroused  at 
kngth, 


THE  DREAM. 


20 


How  leaps  the  spirit  to  its  former  strength ! 
What   memories   crowd  the   newly  conscJeyus 

brain, 

What  gleams  of  rapture,  and  what  starts  of  pain ! 
Till  from  the  soul  the  heavy  mists  stand  clear, 
All  wane's  and  fades  that  seem'd  so  darkly  drear 
The  sun's  fair  rays  those  shades  of  death  destroy 
And  passionate  thankfulness  and  tears  of  joy 
Swell  at  our  hearts,  as,  gazing  on  his  beam, 
We  start,   and  cry  aloud,    "Thank  Heaven 

'twas  but  a  dream  !" 

But  there  are  visions  of  a  fairer  kind, 
Thoughts  fondly  cherish'd  by.  the   slumbering 

mind, 
Which,    when  they  vanish   from  the  waking 

brain, 

We  close  our  eyes,  and  long  to  dream  again. 
Their  dim  voice  calls  to  our  forsaken  side 
Those  who  betray'd  us,  seeming  true  and  tried* 
Those  whom  the  fast  receding  waves  of  time 
Have  floated  from  us  ;  those  who  in  the  prime 
And  glory  of  our  young  life's  eagle  flight 
Shone  round  like  rays,  encircling  us  with  light^ 
And  gave  the  bright  similitude  of  truth 
To  fair  illusions — vanish' d  with  our  youth. 
They  bring  again  the  tryst  of  early  love, 
(That  passionate  hope,  all  other  hopes  above  !) 
Bid  the  pale  hair,  long  shrouded  in  the  grave, 
Round  the  young  head  in  floating  ringlets  wava, 
And  fill  the  air  with  echoes.     Gentle  words, 
Low  laughter,  and  the  singing  of  sweet  bircta, 


80  THE  DREAM. 

Come  round  us  then ;    and  dropping  of  light 

boughs, 

Whose  shadow  could  not  cool  our  burning  brows, 
And  lilac-blossoms',  scenting  the  warm  air, 
And  long  laburnums,  fragile,  bright,  and  fair ; 
And   murmuring   breezes   through    the    green 

leaves  straying, 

And  rippling  waters  in  the  sunshine  playing, 
All  that  around  our  slumbering  sense  can  fling 
The  glory  of  some  half-forgotten  spring1 
They  bring  again  the  fond  approving  gaze 
Of  old   true   friends,    who  mingled  love  with 

praise  ; 
When  Fame  (that  cold  bright  guiding-star  be 

low) 

Took  from  affection's  light  a  borrow'd  glow— 
And,  strong  in  all  the  might  of  earnest  thought, 
Through  the  long  studious  night  untired  we 

wrought, 

That  others  might  the  morning  hours  beguile, 
With  the  fond  triumph  of  their  wondering  smile. 
What  though  those   dear   approving  smiles  be 

gone, 

What  though  we  strive  neglec'ed  and  alone, 
What  though  no  voice  uoia-  mourns  our  hope'« 


Nor  in  that  hour  of  triumph  gives  v/s  joy  ? 
In  dreams  the  days  return  when  this  was  not, 
When  strong  affection  sooth'd  our  toilsome  lot.' 
Chesr'd,  loved,  admonish'd,  lauded,  we 
And  the  sick  soul  regains  its  former  fire. 


THE  DREAM.  31 

Benealn  the  influence  of  this  fend  spell, 
Happy,  contented,  bless'd,  we  seem  to  dwell; 
Sweet  faces  shine  with  love's  own  tender  ray, 
Which  frown,  or  coldly  turn  from  us,  by  day  ; 
The  lonely  orphan  hears  a  parent's  voice  ; 
Sad  childless  mothers  once  again  rejoice  ; 
The  poor  deserted  seems  a  happy  bride  ; 
And  the  long  parted  wander  side  by  side. 

Ah,  vain  deceit;  Awakening  with  a  start, 
Sick  grows  the  beatings  of  the  troubled  heart ; 
Silence,  like  some  dark  mantle,  drops  around, 
Quenching  th'  imagined  voice's  welcome  sound, 
Again  the  soul  repeats  its  old  farewells, 
Again  recalls  sad  hours  and  funeral  knells  ; 
Again,  as  daylight  opens  on  their  view, 
The  orphan  shrinks,  the  mother  mourns  anew; 
Till  clear  we  feel,  as  fades  the  morning  star, 
How  left,  how  lonely,  how  oppress'd  we  are  ! 

And  other  dreams    exist,   more   vague  and 

bright 

Than  MEMORY  ever  brought  to  cheer  the  night  ;— 
Most  to  the  young  and  happy  do  they  come, 
To  those  who  know  no  shelter  but  of  home  ; 
To  those  of  whom  the  inspired  writer  spoke, 
When  from  his  lips  the  words  prophetic  brcko, 
Which  (conscious  of  the  strong  and  credulom 


Experience  only  in  the  heart  can  quell) 
Promised  the  nearer  glimpse  of  perfect  truth 
Not  to  cold  wisdom  but  to  fervent  youth 


$2  THE  DREAitf. 

Each,  in  their  measure,  caught  its  fitful  gleams—" 
The  young  saw  visions,  and  the  old  dream'd 
dreams. 

The   young  !     Oh  !   what  should  wandering 

fancy  bring 
In  life's  first  spring-time  but  the  thoughts  of 

spring? 
World    without    winter,    blooming    amaranth 

bowers, 

Garlands  of  brightness  wreath' d  from   change 
less  flowers  ; 

\V  here  shapes  like  angsls  wander  to  and  fro, 
Unwing'd,  but  glorious,  in  the  noontide  glow, 
Which  steeps  the  hills,  the  dales,  the  earth,  the 

sea, 

In  one  soft  flood  of  golden  majesty. 
In  this  world, — so  create, — no  sighs  nor  tears,— 
No  sadness  brought  wit  h  lapse  of  varying  years,— 
No  cold  betrayal  of  the  trusting  heart, — 
No  knitting  up  of  love  fore-doom'd  to  part  — 
No  pain,  deformity,  nor  pale  disease, — 
No  wars, — no  tyranny, — nor  fears  that  freeze 
The  rapid  current  of  the  restless  blood, — 
Nor  effort  scorn'd, — nor  act  misunderstood, — 
No  dark  remorse  for  ever-haunting  sin, — 
But  all  at  peace  without, — at  rest  within  ; 
And  hopes  which  gild  Thought's  wildest  waking 

hours, 
Scatter'd  around  us  carelessly  as  flowers. 

Oh  !  Paradise,  in  vain  didst  thou  depart* 
Thine  image  still  is  stamp' d  on  every  heart ! 


• 

I 
THE  DKEAM.  33 

Though  rm  irning  man  in  vain  may  seek  to  trace 
The  site  of  that  which  was  his  dwelling-place, 
Though  the  four  glittering  rivers  now  divide 
No  realms  of  beauty  with  their  rolling  tide. 
Each  several  life  yet  opens  with  the  view 
Of  that  unblighted  world  where  Adam  drew 
The  breath  of  being:  in  each  several  mind, 
However  cramp'd,  a,nd  fetter'd,  and  confined, 
The  innate  power  of  beauty  folded  lies, 
And,  like  a  bud  beneath  the  summer  skies, 
Blooms  out  in  youtli  through  many -a  radiant  day 
Though  in  life's  winter  frost  it  dies  away. 

From  such  a  vision,  bright  with  all  the  fame 
Her  youth,  her  innocence,  her  hope  could  frame, 
The   maiden  woke :   and,  when   her  shadowy 

gaze 

Had  lost  the  dazzled  look  of  wild  amaze 
Turn'd  on  her  mother  when  she  first  awoke, 
Thus  to  her  questioning  glance  she   answering 

spoke : — 

"  Methought,  oh  !  gentle  Mother,  by  thy  side 
I  dwelt  no  more  as  now,  but  through  a  wide 
And  sweet  world  wander'd;  nor  even  then  alone  j 
For  ever  in  that  dream's  soft  light  stood  one, 
[  know  not,  who, — yet  most  familiar  seem'd 
The  fond  companionship  of  which  I  dream'd; 
A  Brother's  love,  is  but  a  name  to  me  ; 
A  Father's   brighten'd  not  my  infancy  ; 
To  me  in  childhood's  years,  no  stranger's  face 
Took,  from  long  habit,  friendship's  holy  grace* 
3 


84  THE  DREAM. 

My  life  hath  still  been  Icne,  and  needed  not, 
Heaven  knows,  more  perfect  love  than  was  my 

lot, 
In  thy  dear  heart :  how  dream'd  I  then,  sweet 

Mother, 
Of  any  love  but  thine,  who  knew  no  other  ? 

"  We  seem'd,  this  shadow  and  myself,  to  be 
Together  by  the  blue  and  boundless  sea ; 
No  settled  home  was  present  to  my  thought — 
No  other  form  my  clouded  fancy  brought ; 
This  one  Familiar  Presence  still  beguiled 
My  every  thought,  and  look'd  on  nne  and  smiled 
Fair  stretch'd  in  beauty  lay  the  glittering  strand, 
With  low  green  copses  sloping  from  the  land ; 
And  tangled  underwood  and  sunny  fern, 
And  flowers  whose  humble  names  none  cared 

to  learn, 
Small  starry  wild  flowers,  white  and  gold  and 

blue, 

With  leaves  turn'd  crimson  by  the  autumual  hue, 
Bask'd  in  the  fervor  of  the  noontide  glow, 
Wnose  hot  rays  pierced  the  thirsty  roots  below. 
The  floating  nautilus  rose  clear  and  pale, 
As  though  a  spirit  trimm'd  its  fairy  sail, 
White  and  transparent;  and  beyond  it  gleam'd 
Such  light  as  never  yet  on  Ocean  beanrd  : 
And  pink-lipp'd  shells,  and  many  color'd  weeds, 
And  long  brown  bulbous  things  like  jaspar  beads, 
And  glistening  pearls  in  beauty  faint  and  fair, 
And  all  things  strange,  and  wonderful,  and  rarft, 
Whose  true  existence  travellers  make  known, 


THE  WREAM.  33 

Seem'd  scatter'd  there,  and  easily  my  own. 
And  then  we  wove  our  ciphers  in  the  sands, 
All  fondly  intertwined  by  loving  .lands; 
And   laugh' d  to  see  the  rustling  snow-white 

spray 
Creep   o'er  the   names,   and  wash  their  trace 

away. 
And  the  storm  came  not,  though  the  white  foam 

curl'd 

In  lines  of  brightness  far  along  the  coast ; 
Though   many  a  ship,   with   swelling   sails  un 
furl' d, 

From  the  mid-sea  to  sheltering  haven  cross'd; 
Though  the  wild  billows  heaved,  and  rose,  and 

broke, 

One  o'er  the  other  with  a  restless  sound, 
And  the  deep  spirit  of  the  wind  awoke, 

Ruffling  in  wrath  each  glassy  verdant  mound  ' 
While  onward  roll'd  that  army  of  huge  waves, 

Until  the  foremost,  with  exulting  roar, 
Rose,  proudly  crested,  o'er  his  brother  slaves, 
And  dash'd  triumphant  on  the  groaning  shore  ! 
For  then  the  Moon  rose  up,  Night's  mournful 

Queen, 
'Walking  with  white  feet  o'er  the  troubled 

Sea,' 
And  all  grew  still  again,  as  she  had  been 

Heaven's  messenger  to  bring  Tranquility ; 
Till,  pale  and  tender,  on  the  glistening  main 
She  sank  and  smiled  like  one  who  loves  in  vain. 
And  still  we  linger'd  by  that  shadowy  strand, 
Happy,  yet  full  of  thought,  hand  link'd  in  hand  , 


36  THE  DREAM. 

The  husri'd  waves  rippling  softly  at  our  feet, 
The  night-breeze  freshening  o'er  the  summer's 

heat; 

With  our  hearts  beating,  and  our  gazing  eyes 
Fix'd  on  the  star-light  of  those  deep  blue  skies, 
Blessing   '  the  year,   the  hour,   the  place  the 

time  ;' 
While   sounded,   faint  and  far,  some  turret's 

midnight  chime. 

"  It  pass'd,  that  vision  of  the  Ocean's  might ! 

I  know  not  how,  for  in  my  slumbering  mind 
There  was  no  movement,  all  was  shifting  light, 
Through  which  we  floated  with  the  wander* 

ing  wind ; 

And,  still  together,  in  a  different  scene, 
We  look'd  on  England's  woodland,  fresh  ani 
green. 

"  No  perfume  of  the  cultured  rose  was  there, 
Wooing  the  senses  with  its  garden  smell, — 
Nor  snow-white  lily, — called  so  proudly  fair, 
Though  by  the  poor  man's  cot  she  loves  to 

dwell, 

Nor  finds  his  little  garden  scant  of  room 
To  bid  her  stately  buds  in  beauty  bloom  ; — 
Nor  jasmin,  with  her  pale  stars  shining  through 
The  myrtle  darkness  of  her  leaf's  green  hue,— 
Nor  helitrope,  whose  gray  and  heavy  wreath 
Mimics  the  orchard  blossoms'  fruity  breath — 
Nor  clustering  dahlia,  with  its  scerwless  flower 


THE   DREAM.  37 

Cheating  the  heart   through    autumn's    faded 

hours, — 

Nor  bright  chrysanthimum,  whose  train'd  array 
Still  makes  the  rich  man's  winter  path  look  gay. 
And  bows  its  hardy  head  when  wild  winds  blow, 
To  free  its  petals  from  the  fallen  snow  ; — 
Nor  yet  carnation;" — 

(Thou,  beloved  of  all 

The  plants  that  thrive  at  Art  or  Nature's  call, 
By  one  who  greets  thee  with  a  weary  sigh 
As  the  dear  friend  of  happy  days  gone  by  ; 
By  one   who   names  thee  last,  but  loves  thee 

first, 

Of  all  the  flowers  a  garden  ever  nursed  ; 
The  mute  remembrancer  and  gentle  token 
Of   links   which   heavy   hands    have    roughly 

broken, 
Welcomed  through  many  a  Summer  with  the 

same 

Unalter'd  gladness  as  when  first  ye  came, 
And  welcomed  still,  though — as  in  later  years 
We  often  welcome  pleasant  things — with  tears! 

I  wander  !  In  the  Dream  these  had  no  place— 
Nor  3orrow  : — all  was  Nature's  freshest  grace. 

"There,  wild  geranium,  with  its  woolly  stem 
And  aromatic  breath,  perfumed  the  glade  ; 

And  fairy  speedwell,  like  some  sapphire  gem, 
Lighted  with  purple  sparks  the  hedge-row's 
shade  ; 

And  woodbine,  with  her  t:nted  calyxes, 


38  THE  DREAM. 

And   dog-rose  glistening  with  the    devrs  of 

morn, 
And  tangled  wreaths  of  tufted  clematis, 

Whose  blossoms  pale  the  careless  eye   ma? 

scorn, 

(As  green  and  light  her  fairy  mantles  fall 
To  hide  the  rough  hedge  or  the  crumbling  wall/ 
But  in  whose  breast  the  laden  wild-bees  dive 
For  the  best  riches  of  their  teeming  hive  : 
"  There,   sprang  the  sunny  cricket ;    there, 

was  spread 

The  fragile  silver  of  the  spider's  thread, 
Stretching  from  blade  to  blade  of  emerald  grass, 
Unbroken,  till  some  human  footstep  pass  ; 
There,  by  the  rippling  stream  that  murmur'd  on, 
Now  seen,  now  hidden — half  in  light,  half  Sun— 
The  darting  dragon-fly,  with  sudden  gleam, 
Shot,  as  it  went,  a  gold  and  purple  beam  ; 
And  the  fish  leap'd  within  the  deeper  pool, 
And  the  green  trees  stretch'd  out  their  branches 

cool, 

Where  many  a  bird  hush'd  in  her  peopled  nest 
The  unfledged  darlings  of  her  feather' d  breast, 
Listening  her  mate's  clear  song,  in  that  sweet 

grove 
Where  all  around  breathed  happiness  and  love  ! 

ij 
"  And  while  we  talk'd  the  summer  hours  flew 

fast, 
As  hours  may  fly,  with  those  whose  love  i« 

young : 
Who  feal  no  future,  and  who  know  no  past 


THE   DREAM.  39 

Dating  existence  from  the  hope  that  sprung 
Up  in  their  hearts  with  such  a  sudden  light, 
That  all  beyond  shows  dark  and  blank  as  night. 
'  Until  methought  we  trod  a  wide  flat  heath, 

Where   yew  and  cypress  darkly  seem'd  to 

wave 
D'er  countless  tombs,  so  beautiful,  that  death 

Seem'd  here  to  make  a  garden  of  the  grave  ! 
All  that  is  holy,  tender,  full  of  grace, 

Was  sculptured  on  the  monuments  around, 
And  many  a  line  the  musing  eye  could  trace, 

Which  spoke  unto  the  heart  without  a  sound, 
There  lay  the  warrior  and  the  son  of  song, 

And  there — in  silence  till  the  judgment-day— 
The  orator,  whose  all-persuading  tongue 

Had  moved  the  nations  with  resistless  sway 
There  slept  pale  men  whom  science  taught  to 
climb 

Restlessly  upward  all  their  laboring  youth  ; 
Who  left,  half  conquer'd,  secrets  which  in  time 

Burst  on  mankind  in  ripe  arid  glorious  truth. 
He  that  had  gazed  upon  the  steadfast  stars, 

And  could  foretell  the  dark  eclipse's  birth, 
And  when  red  comets  in  their  blazing  cars 

Should  sweep  above  the  awed  and  troubled 

earth : — 
He  that  had  sped  brave  vessels  o'er  the  seas, 

Which  swiftly  bring  the  wanderer  to  his  home, 
Uncanvass'd    ships,    which     move     without  a 
breeze, 

Their   bright   wheels    dashing    through    the 
ocean  i"0am : — 


40  THE   DREAM. 

All,  who  in  this  life's  bounded  brief  career 

Had  shone   amongst  or  served  their  fellow 

men, 
And  left  a  name  embalm'd  in  glory  here, 

Lay  calmly  buried  on  that  magic  plain. 
And  he  who  wander'd  with  me  in  my  dream, 

Told  me  their  histories  as  we  onward  went, 
Till  the  grave  shone  with  such  a  hallow'd  beam, 

Such  pleasure  with  their  memory  seem'd  blent 
That,  when  we  look'd  to  heaven,  our  upwaro 

eyes 
With  no  funeral  sadness  mock'd  the  skies  ! 

"  Then,  change  of  scene,  and  time,  and  place 

once  more  ; 

And  by  a  Gothic  window,  richly  bright, 
Whose  stain'd  armorial  bearings  on  the  floor 

Flung  the  quaint  tracery  of  their  color'd  light 
We  sate  together  :  his  most  noble  head 

Bent  o'er  the  storied  tome  of  other  dv\ys, 
And  still  he  commented  on  all  we  read, 
And   taught  me  what  to  love,  and  what  to 

praise, 
Then  Spenser  made  the  summer-dny  seem  brief, 

Or  Milton  sounded  with  a  loftier  song, 
Then   Cowper   charm'd,    with   lays   of  gentle 

grief, 

Or  rough  old  Dryden  roll'd  the  hour  along. 
Or,  in  his  varied  beauty  dearer  still, 
Sweet  Shakspeare  changed  the  world  around  fit 

will; 
And  we  forgot  the  sunshine  of  that  room 


THE  DREAM. 

To  sit  with  Jacquez  in  the  forest  gloom  ; 
To  look  abroad  with  Juliet's  anxious  eye 
For  her  boy-lover  'neath  the  moonlight  sky; 
Stand  with  Macbeth  upon  the  haunted  heath 
Or  weep  for  gentle  Desdemona's  death; 
Watch,  on  bright  Cydnus'  wave,  the  glittering 

sheen 

And  silken  sails  of  Egypt's  wanton  queen; 
Or  roam  with  Ariel  through  that  island  strange 
Where  spirits,  and  not  men,  were  wont  to  range, 
Still  struggling  on  through  brake,  and  bush,  ana 

hollow, 
Hearing    that  sweet    voice  calling— '  Follow ! 

follow  !' 

"Nor  were  there  wanting  lays  of  other  lands, 
For  these  were  all  familiar  in  his  hands : 
And  Dante's  dream  of  horror  work'd  its  spell,— 
And  Petrarch's  sadness  on  our  bosom  fell, — • 
And  prison'd  Tasso's— he,  the  coldly-loved, 
The  madly-loving  !  he,  so  deeply  proved 
By  many  a  year  of  darkness,  like  the  grave, 
For  her  who  dared  not  plead,  or  would  not  save, 
For  her   who  thought  the  poet's  suit  brought 

shame, 

Whose  passion  hath  immortalized  her  name  ! 
And  Egmont,  with  his  noble  heart  betray'd, — 
And  Carlos,  haunted  by  a  murder'd  shade, — 
And  Faust's  strange  legend,  sweet  and  wond* 

'rous  wild, 

Stole  many  a  tear  : — Creation's  loveliest  child 
Guileless.,  e/isnared,  and  tempted  Margaret, 


42  THE  BREAM. 

Who  could  peruse  thy  fate  with  eyes  unwet? 

"  Then,  through  the  lands  we  read  of,  far 

away, 

The  vision  led  me  all  a  summer's  day  : 
And  we  look'd  round  on  southern  Italy, 

Where   her  dark  head   the  graceful  cypress 

rears 
In  arrowy  straightness  and  soft  majesty, 

And  the  sun's  face  a  mellower  glory  wears  ; 
Bringing,  where'er  his  warm  light  richly  shines, 
Sweet  odors  from  the  gum-distilling  pines; 
And  casting  o'er  white  palaces  a  glow, 
Like  morning's  hue  on  mountain-peaks  of  snow, 

' '  Those  palaces  !    how  fair    their    columns 

rose  ! 

Their  courts,  cool  fountains,  and  wide  porticos! 
And  ballustraded  roofs,  whose  very  form 
Told  what  an  unknown  stranger  was  the  storm  I 
In  one  of  these  we  dwelt  :  its  painted  walls 

A  master's  hand  had  been  employed  to  trace  ; 
Ith  long  cool  range  of  shadowy  marble  halls 

Was  *ill'd  with  statues  of  most  living  grace; 
While  on  its  ceiling  roll'd  the  fiery  car 
Of  the  bright  day-god,  chasing  night  afar, — 
Or   Jove's   young   favorite,   toward    Olympus' 

height 

Soar'd  with  the  Eagle's  dark  majestic  flight, — 
Or  fair  Apollo's  harp  seem'd  freshly  strung, 
All  heaven  group' d  round  him,  listening  while 
he  eung. 


THE  DREAM.  43 

"  So,  in  the  garden's  plann'd   and  planted 

bound 

All  wore  the  aspect  of  enchanted  ground  ; 
Thick  orange-groves,  close  arching  over  head, 
Shelter'd  the  paths  our  footsteps  loved  to  tread; 
Or  ilex-trees  shut  out,  with  shadow  sweet, 
Th'  oppressive  splendor  of  the  noontide  heat. 
Through  the  bright  vista,  at  each  varying  turn 
Glearn'd  the  white  statue,  or  the  graceful  urn  ; 
And,  paved  with  many  a  curved  and  twisted  line 
Of  iair  Mosaic's  strange  and  quaint  design, 
Terrace  on  terrace  rose,  with  steep  so  slight, 
That  scarce  the  pausing  eye  inquired. the  height, 
Till  stretch'd  beneath  in  far  perspective  lay 
The  glittering  city  and  the  deep  blue  bay  ! 
Then  as  we  turn'd  again  to  groves  and  bowers, 
(Rich  with  the  perfume  ot  a  thousand  flowers,) 
The  sultry  day  was  cheated  of  its  force 
By    the    sweet  winding   of   some    streamlet's 

course  : 

From  sculptured  arch,  and  ornamented  walls, 
Rippled  a  thousand  tiny  waterfalls, 
While  here  and  there  an  open  basin  gave 
Rest  to  the  eye  and  freshness  to  the  wave ; 
Here,  high  above  the  imprison'd  waters,  stood 
Some  imaged  INaiad,  guardian  of  the  flood; 
There,  in  a  cool  and  grotto-like  repose, 
The  sea-born  goddess  from  her  shell  arose  ; 
Or  river-god  his  fertile  urn  display'd, 
Gushing  at  distance  through  the  long  arcade,"* 
Or  Triton,  lifting  his  wild  conch  on  high, 
Spouied  his  silver  tribute  to  the  sky, 


44  THE  DREAM. 

i 

Or,  lovelier  still,  (because  to  Nature  true, 
Even  in  the  thought  creative  genius  drew,) 
Some  statue-nymph,  her  bath  of  beauty  o'er, 
Stood  gently  bending  by  the  rocky  shore, 
And,  like  Bologna's  sweet  and  graceful  dream, 
From  her  moist  hair  wrung  out  the  living  stream, 

"  Bright  was  the  spot !  and  still  we  linger'd  on 
Unwearied,  till  the  summer-day  was  done  ; 
Till  He,  who,  when  the  morning  dew  was  wet, 
In  glory  rose — in  equal  glory  set. 
Fair  sank  his  light,  unclouded  to  the  last, 
And  o'er  that  land  its  glow  of  beauty  cast ; 
And  the  sweet  breath  of  evening  air  went  forth 
To  cool  the  bosom  of  the  fainting  earth; 
To  bid  the  pale-leaved  olives  lightly  wave 
Upon  their  seaward  slope  (whose  waters  lave 
With  listless  gentleness  the  golden  strand, 
And  scarcely  leave,  and  scarce  return  to  land  ;j 
Or  with  its  wings  of  freshness,  wandering  round 
Visit  the  heights  of  many  a  villa  crown'd, 
Where  the  still  pine  and  cypress,  side  by  side. 
Look  from  their  distant  hills  on  Ocean's  tide. 


"The  cypress  and  the  pine  !     Ah,  still  I  see 
These  thy  green  children,  lovely  Italy  ! 
Nature's  dear  favorites,  allow'd  to  wear 
Their  summer  hue  throughout  the  circling  year 
And  oft,  when  wandering  out  at  even-time 
To  watch  the  sunsets  of  a  colder  clime, 
As  the  dirr.  landscape  fades  and  grows  more  faint 


THE  DREAM.  45 

Fancy's  sweet  power  a  different    teene  shall 

paint ; 

Enrich  with  deeper  tints  the  colors  given 
To  the  pale  beauty  of  our  English  heaven, — 
Bid  purple  mountains  rise  among  the  clouds, 
Or    deem    their    mass    some    marble    palace 

shrouds, — 

Trace  on  the  red  horizon's  level  line, 
In  outlines  dark,  the  high  majestic  pine, — 
And  hear,  amid  the  groups  of  English  trees, 
His  sister  cypress  murmuring  to  the  breeze  ! 

"  Never  again  shall  evening,  sweet  and  still, 
Gleam  upon  river,  mountain,  rock,  or  hill, — 
Never  again  shall  fresh  and  budding  spring, 
Or  brighter  summer,  hue  of  beauty  bring, 
In  this,  the  clime  where  'tis  my  lot  to  dwell, 
But  shall  recall,  as  by  a  magic  spell, 
Thy  scenes,  dear  land  of  poetry  and  song! 
Bid  thy  fair  statues  on  my  memory  throng  ; 
Thy  glorious  pictures  gleam  upon  my  sight 
Like  fleeting  shadows  o'er  the  summer  light 
And  send  my  haunted  heart  to  dwell  once  more, 
Clad  and  entranced  by  thy  delightful  shore — 
Thy  shore,  where  rolls  that  blue  and  tideless  sea, 
Bright  as  thyself,  thou  radiant  Italy ' 

"And  there  (where  Beauty's  spirit  sure  had 

birth, 
Though  she  hath  wander' d  since  upon  the 

earth, 
And  scatter'd,  as  she  pass'd,  some  sparks  of 

thought, 


46  TFE  DREAM. 

Such  as  of  old  her  sons  of  genius  wrought, 

To  show  what  strength  the  immortal  soul  can 

wield 

E'en  here,  in  this  its  dark  and  narrow  field, 
And  fills  us  with  a  fond  inquiring  thirst 
To  see  that  land  which  claim'd  her  triumphs 

first) 
Music    was     brought — with     soft     impressive 

power — 

To  fill  with  varying  joy  the  varying  hour. 
We  welcomed  it ;  for  welcome  still  to  all 
It  comes,  in  cottage,  court,  or  lordly  hall; 
And  in  the  long  bright  summer  evenings,  oft 
We  sate  and  listened  to  some  measure  soft 
From  many  instruments  ;  or,  faint  and  lone, 
(Touch'd  by  his  gentle  hand,  or  by  my  own,} 
The  little  lute  its  chorded  notes  would  send 
Tender  and  clear  ;  and  with  our  voices  blend 
Cadence  so  true,  that,  when  the  breeze  swept  by. 
One  mingled  echo  floated  on  its  sigh! 


"  And  still  as  day  by  day  we  saw  depart, 
/was  the  living  idol  of  his  heart: 
How  to  make  joy  a  portion  of  the  air 
That  breathed  around  me,  seem'd  his  only  care. 
For  me  the  harp  was  strung,  the  page  was  turn  dj 
For  me  the  morning  rose,  the  sunset  burn'd  ; 
For  me  the  Spring  put  out  her  verdant  suit ; 
For  me  the  Summer  flower,  the  Autumn  fruit , 
The  very  world  seem'd  mine,  so  mighty  strode 
For  my  contentment,  that  enduring  love. 


THE  DREAM.  47 

"  I  see  hirfi  still,  dear  mother  !  Still  I  hear 
That  voice  so  deeply  soft,  so  strangely  clear; 
Btill  in  the*air  wild  wandering  echoes  float, 
And   bring  my  dream's  sweet  music  note  for 

note  ! 

Oh  !  shall  those  sounds  no  more  my  fancy  bless, 
Which  fill  my  heart  and  on  my  memory  press! 
Shall  I  no  more  those  sunset  clouds  behold, 
Floating  like  bright  transparent  thrones  of  gold  ? 
The  skies,  the  seas,  the  hills  of  glorious  blue; 
The   glades   and  groves,    with  glories   shining 

through ; 

The  bands  of  red  and  purple,  richly  seen 
Athwart  the  sky  of  pale,  faint,  gem-like  green; 
When  the  breeze  slept,  the  earth  lay  hush'dand 

still, 

When  the  low  sun  sank  slanting  from  the  hill, 
And  slow  and  amber-tinged  the  moon  uprose, 
To  watch  his  farewell  hour  in  glory  close? 
Is  all  that  radiance  past— gone  by  forever — 

And  must  there  in  its  stead  forever  be 
The  gray,  sad  sky,  the  cold  and  clouded  river, 

And  dismal  dwellings  by  the  wintry  sea? 
E'er  half  a  summer,  altering  day  by  day, 
In  fickle  brightness,  here,  hath  pass'd  away  ! 
And  was  that  form  (whose  love  might  still  sustain) 
Naught  but  a  vapor  of  the  dreaming  brain? 
Would  I  had  slept  for  ever  !" 

Sad  she  sigh'd  ; 
To  whom  the  mournful  mother  thus  replied  :— 

"Upbraid  not  Heaven,  whose  wisdom  thus 
would  rule 


48  THE  DREAM. 

A   world   whose   changes  are  the  soul's  best 

school : 

A',1  dream  like  thee,  and  'tis  for  Mercy's  sake 
That  th.jse   who  dream  the  wildest,   soonest 

wake  ; 

All  deem  Perfection's  system  would  be  found 
In  giving  earthly  sense  no  stint  or  bound  ; 
All  look  for  happiness  beneath  the  sun, 
And  each  expects  what  God  hath  given  to  none- 

11  In  what  an  idle  luxury  of  joy 
Would  thy  spoil' d  heart  its  useless  hours  em 
ploy  ! 

In  what  a  selfish  loneliness  of  light 
Wouldst  thou  exist,  read  we  thy  dream  aright 
How  hath  thy  sleeping  spirit  broke  the  chain 
Which  knits  thy  human  lot  to  other's  pain, 
And  made  this  world  of  peopled  millions  seem 
For  thee  and  for  the  lover  of  thy  dream  ! 

"  Think  not  my  heart  with  cold  indifference 

heard 

The  various  feelings  which  in  thine  have  stirr'd, 
Or  that  its  sad  and  weary  currents  know 
Faint  sympathy,  except  for  human  woe  : 
Well  have  the  dormant  echoes  of  my  breast 
Answer' d  the  joys  thy  gentle  voice  express'd  ; 
Conjured  a  vision  of  the  stately  mate 
With  whom  the  flattering  vision  link'd  thy  fate; 
And  follow'd  thee  through  grove  and  woodland 

wild, 


THE  DREAM.  49 

Where  so  much    natural   beauty  round  the* 
smiled. 


"  Whatman  so  worldly-  wise,  or  chillM  by  age, 
Who,  bending  o'er  the  faint  descriptive  page, 
Recalls  not  such  a  scene  in  some  far  nook — 
(Whereon  his  eyes,  perchance,  no  more  shall 

look  ;) 
Some  hawthorn  copse,  some   gnaii'd  majestic 

tree, 

The  favorite  play-place  of  his  infancy  ? 
Who  has  not  felt  for  Cowper's  sweet  lament, 
When  twelve  years'  course  their  cruel  change 

had  sent ; 

When  his  fell'd  poplars  gave  no  further  shade, 
And  low  on  earth  the  blackbird's  nest  was  laid  ; 
Wrhen  in  a  desert  sunshine,  bare  and  blank, 
Lay  the  green  field  and  river's  mossy  bank  ; 
And  melody  of  bird  or  branch  no  more 
Rose  with  the  breeze  that  swept  along  the  shore  f 


"  Few  are  the  hearts,  (nor  theirs  of  kindliest 

frame,) 

On  whom  fair  Nature  holds  not  such  a  claim  ; 
And  oft,  in  after-life,  some  simple  thing — 
A  bank  of  primroses  in  early  spring — 
The  tender  scent  which  hidden  violets  yield—* 
The  sight  of  cowslips  in  a  meadow-field — 
Or  young  laburnum's  pendant  yellow  chain"-* 
Way  bring  the  favorite  play. place  back  again  < 
4 


50  THE  DREAM. 

Our  youthful  mates  are  gone;  s^ome  dead,  some 

changed, 

With  whom  that  pleasant  spot  was  gladly  ranged  ; 
Ourselves,   perhaps,   more    alter'd    e'en    than 

they — 
But  there  still   blooms  the    blossom-showering 

May  ; 

There  still  along  the  hedge-row's  verdant  line 
The  linnet  sings,  the  thorny  brambles  twine  ; 
Still  in  the  copse  a  troop  of  merry  elves 
Shout — the  gay  image  of  our  former  selves  ; 
And  still,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  eager  hands 
Some  rosy  urchin  high  on  tiptoe  stands, 
And  plucks  the  ripest  berries  from  the  bough— 
Which  tempts  a  different  generation  now  ! 


"  What  though  no  real  beauty  haunt  that  spot. 
By  graver  minds  beheld  and  noticed  not  ? 
Can  we  forget  that  once  to  our  young  eyes 
It  wore  the  aspect  of  a  Paradise  ? 
No  ;  still  around  its  hallow'd  precinct  lives 
The  fond  mysterious  charm  that  memory  gives  , 
The  man  recalls  the  feelings  of  the  boy, 
And  clothes  the  meanest  flower  with  freshness 
and  with  joy. 

"  Nor  think  by  elder  hearts  forgotten  quite 
Love's   whisper'd   words ;  youth's  sweet    and 

strange  delight  ; 

They  live — though  after-memories  fade  away  ; 
Tiiey  live  to  sheer  life  s  slow  declining  day ; 


THE  DREAM.  51 

Haunting  the  widow  by  her  lonely  hearth, 
As,  meekly  smiling  at  her  children's  mirth, 
She  spreads  her  fair  thin  hands  toward  the  fire, 
To  seek  the  warmth  their  slacken'd  veins  re 
quire  : 
O"  gladdening  her  to  whom  Heaven's  mercy 

spares 

Her  old  companion  with  his  silver  hairs  ; 
And  while   he   dozes — changed,  and  dull,  and 

weak — 
And  his  hush'd  grandchild  signs,  but  dares  not 


Bidding  her  watch,  with  many  a  tender  smile, 
The  wit  her' d  form  which  slumbers  all  the  while 


"Yes!  sweet  the  voice  of  those  we  loved! 

the  tone 

Which  cheers  our  memory  as  we  sit  alone, 
And  will  not  leave  us  ;  the  o'er-mastering  force, 
Whose    under-current's   strange    and    hidden 

course 

Bids  some  chance  word,  by  colder  hearts  forgot, 
Return — and  still  return — yet  weary  not 
The  ear   which  wooes  its  sameness  !      How, 

when  Death 
Hath  stopp,d  with  ruthless  hands  some  precioua 

breath, 

The  memory  of  the  voice  he  hath  destroyed 
Lives  in  our  souls,  as  in  an  aching  void  ! 
How,  through  the  varying  fate  of  after-years, 
When  stifled  sorrow  weeps  but  casual  tears, 
If  some  stray  tone  seem  ZiAethe  voice  we  knoWj 


52  THE    PREAM. 

The  heart  leaps  up  with  answer  faint  and  true! 
Greeting  again  that  sweet,  long-vanish' d  sound, 
As,  in  earth's  nooks  of  ever-haunted  ground, 
Strange  accident,  or  man's  capricious  will, 
Wakes  the  lone  echoes,  and  they  answer  still ! 

"  Oh  !  what  a  shallow  fable  cheats  the  age, 
When  the  lost  lover,  on  the  motley  stage, 
Wrapp'd  from  his  mistress  in  some  quaint  dis 
guise, 

Deceives  her  ears,  because  he  cheats  her  eyes  ! 
Rather,   if  all  could   fade   which   charm' d   u» 

first, — 
If,  by  some  magic  stroke,  some  plague-spot 

cursed, 

All  outward  semblance  left  the  form  beloved 
A  wreck  unrecognised,  and  half  disproved, 
At  the  dear  sound  of  that  familiar  voice 
Her  waken'd  heart  should  tremble  and  rejoice, 
Leap  to  its  faith  at  once, — and  spurn  the  doubt 
Which,  on  such  showing,  barr'd  his  welcome 
out! 

"  And  if  even  words  are  sweet,  what,  what  is 

song, 

When  lips  we  love,  the  melody  prolong? 
How  thrills  the  soul,  and  vibrates  to  that  lay, 
Swells  with  the  glorious  sound,  or  dies  away ! 
How,  to  the  cadence  of  the  simplest  words 
That  ever  hung  upon  the  wild  harp's  chords, 
The  breathless  heart  lies  listening  ;  as  it  felt 
All  life  within  it  on  that  rrusic  dwelt, 


THE   DREAM.  53 

And  hush'd  the  beating  pulse's  rapid  power 
By  its  own  will,  for  that  enchanted  hour  ! 

"  Ay  !  then  to  those  who  love  the  science  wellf 
Music  becomes  a  passion  and  a  spell ! 
Music,  the  tender  child  of  rudest  times, 
The  gentle  native  of  a'.l  lands  and  climes  ; 
Who  hymns  alike  man's  cradle  and  his  grave, 
Lulls  the  low  cot,  or  peals  along  the  nave ; 
Cheers  the  poor  peasant,  who  his  native  hills 
With  wild  Tyrolean  echoes  sweetly  fills  ; 
Inspires  the  Indian's  low  monotonous  chant, 
Weaves  skilful  melodies,  for  Luxury's  haunt; 
And  still,  through  all  these  changes,  lives  the 

same, 

Spirit  without  a  home,  without  a  name, 
Coming,  where  all  is  discord,  strife,  and  sin, 
To  prove  some  innate  harmony  within 
Our  listening  souis  ;  and  lull  the  heaving  breast 
With  the  dim  vision  of  an  unknown  rest ! 


"  But,  dearest  child,  though  many  a  joy  be 

given 

By  the  pure  bounty  of  all-pitying  Heaven, — 
Though  sweet  emotions  in  our  hearts  have  birth, 
As  flowers  are  spangled  on  the  lap  of  earth, — 
Though,   with   the  flag  of  Hope  and  Triumph 

hung 

High  o'er  our  heads,  we  start  when  life  is  young, 
And  onward  choer'd,  by  icnse,  and  sight,  and 

Bound, 


54  THE    DREAM. 

Like  a  launch'd  bark,  we  enter  witb  a  bound  , 
Yet  must  the  dark  cloud  lour,  the  tempest  fa!!, 
And  the  same  chance  of  shipwreck  waits  for  all. 
Happy  are  they  who  leave  the  harboring  land 
"Not  lor  a  summer  voyage,  hand  in  hand, 
Pleasure's  light  slaves  :  but  with  an  earnest  eye 
Exploring  all  the  future  of  their  sky  ; 
That  so,  when  Life's  career  at  length  is  past, 
To  the  right  haven  they  may  steer  at  last, 
And  safe  from  hidden  rock,  or  open  gale, 
Lay  by  the  oar,  and  furl  the  slacken'd  sail, — 
To  anchor  deeply  on  that  tranquil  shore 
Where   vexing  storms  can  never  reach  them 


"  Wouldst    thou  be    singled  out  by  partial 

Heaven 

The  ONE  to  whom  a  cloudless  lot  is  given  ? 
Look  round  the  world,  and  see  what  fate  is  there, 
Which  justice  can  pronounce  exempt  from  care  : 
Though  bright  they  bloom  to  empty  outward  show 
There  lurks  in  each  some  canker- worm  of  woe  ; 
Still  by  some  thorn  the  onward  step  is  cross'd, 
Nor  least  repining  those  who  're  envied  most : 
The  poor  have  struggling,  toil,  and  wounded 

pride, 

Which  seeks,  and  seeks  in  vain,  its  rags  to  hide  ; 
The  rich,  cold  jealousies,  intrigues,  and  strife, 
And  heart-sick  discontent  which  poisons  life  ; 
The  loved  are  parted  by  the  hand  of  Death 
The  hated  live  to  curse  each  other's  breath  : 
The  wealthy  noble  mourns  the  want  of  heirs 


THE   DREAM.  Si 

While,  each  the  object  of  incessant  prayers, 
Gay,  hardy  sons,  around  the  widow's  board, 
\Vith  careless  smiles  devour  her  scanty  hoard; 
And  hear  no  sorrow  in  her  stifled  sigh, 
And  see  no  terror  in  her  anxious  eye, — 
While  she  in  fancy  antedates  the  time 
When,  scatter'd  far  and  wide  in  many  a  clime, 
These  heirs  to  nothing  but  their  Father's  namo 
Must   earn  their   bread,  and  struggle  hard  fol 

fame  ; 

To  sultry  India  sends  her  fair-hair'd  boy — 
Sees  the  dead  desk  another's  youth  employ— 
And  parts  with  one  to  sail  the  uncertain  main, 
]Slever  perhaps  on  earth  to  meet  again  ! 

"  Nor  e'en  does  Love,  whose  fresh  and  radi. 

ant  beam 

Gave  added  brightness  to  thy  wandering  dream. 
Preserve  from  bitter  touch  of  ills  unknown, 
But  rather  brings  strange  sorrows  of  its  own. 
Various  the  ways  in  which  our  souls  are  tried  ; 
Love  often  fails  where  most  our  faith  relied  ; 
Some    wayward    heart    may    win,    without    a 

thought, 

That  which  thine  own  by  sacrifice  hath  bought ; 
May  carelessly  aside  the  treasure  cast, 
And  yet  be  madly  worshipp'd  to  the  last ; 
Whilst  thou,  forsaken,  grieving,  left  to  pine- 
Vainly  may'st  claim  his  plighted  faith  as  thine: 
Vainly  his  idol's  charms  with  thine  compare, 
And  know  thyself  as  young,  as  bright,  as  f-uir 
Vainly  in  jealous  pangs  consume  ihy  day, 


56  THE   DREAM. 

And  waste  the  sleepless  night  in  teara  away 
Vainly  with  forced  indulgence  strive  to  smile 
In  die  cold  world,  heart-broken  all  the  while, 
Or  from  its  glittering  and  unquiet  crowd, 
Thy  brain  on  fire,  thy  spirit  crush'd  and  bow'd» 
Creep  home  unnoticed,  there  to  weep  alone, 
Mock'd  by  a  claim  which  gives  thee  not  thine 

own, 

Which  leaves  thee  bound  through  all  thy  blight 
ed  youth 

To  him  whose  perjured  soul  hath  broke  its  truth } 
While  the  just  world,  beholding  thee  bereft, 
Scorns — not  his  sin — but  thee,  for  being  left ' 

"  Ah  !  never  to  the  Sensualist  appeal, 
Nor  deem  his  frozen  bosom  aught  can  feel. 
Affection,  root  of  all  fond  memories, 
Which  bids  what  once  hath  charm'd  for  ever 

please, 

He  knows  not :  all  thy  beauty  could  inspire 
Was  but  a  sentiment  of  low  desire  : 
If  from  thy  cheek  the  rose's  hue  be  gone, 
How  should  love  stay  which  loved  for  that  alone  * 
Or,  if  thy  youthful  face  be  still  as  bright 
As  when  it  first  entranced  his  eager  sight, 
Thou  art  the  same  ;  there  is  thy  fault,  thy  crime, 
Which  fades  the  charms    yet  spared  by  rapid 

Time, 

Talk  to  him  of  the  happy  days  gone  by, 
Conceal'*?  aversion  chills  his  shrinking  eye: 
While  in  shine  agony  thoti  still  dost  rave, 
Impatient  wishes  doom  thee  tc  die  grave  ; 


THE   DREAM.  57 

And  if  his  cold  and  selfish  thought  had  power 
T'  accelerate  the  fatal  final  hour, 
The  silent  murder  were  already  done, 
And  thy  white  tomb  would  glitter  in  the  sun. 
What  wouldst  thou  hold  by  ?     What  is  it  to  him 
That  for  his  sake  thy  weeping  eyes  are  dim  ? 
His  pall'd  and  weary  senses  rove  apart, 
And  for  his  heart  —thou  never  hadst  his  heart. 

"  True,  there  is  better  love,  whose  balance 

just 

Mingles  Soul's  instinct  with  our  grosser  dust, 
And  leaves  affection,  strengthening  day  by  day, 
Firm  to  assault,  impervious  to  decay. 
To  such,  a  star  of  hope  thy  love  shall  be 
Whose  steadfast  light  he  still  desires  to  see  ; 
Arid  age  shall  vainly  mar  thy  beauty's  grace, 
Or  wantons  plot  to  steal  into  thy  place, 
Or  wild  Temptation,  from  her  hidden  bowers, 
Fling  o'er   his  path  her  bright  but  poisonous 

flowers, — 

Dearer  to  him  than  all  who  thus  beguile. 
Thy  faded  face,  and  thy  familiar  smile  ; 
Thy  glance,  which  still  hath  welcomed  him  ior 

years, 
Now  bright  with  gladness,  and  now  dim  with 

tears  ! 

And  if  (for  we  are  weak)  division  come 
On  wings  of  discord  to  that  happy  home, 
Soon  is  the  painful  hour  of  anger  past, 
Too  sharp,  too  strange  an  agony  to  last ; 
And,  like  soma  river's  bright  abundant  tide 


58  THE  DREAM. 

Wh.ch  art  or  accident  hath  forced  asice, 
The  well-springs  of  affection,  gushing  o'er, 
Back  to  their  natural  channels  flow  once  more 

"  Ah  !  sad  it  is  when  one  thus  link'd  departs 
When  Death,  that  mighty  severer  of  true  hearts, 
Sweeps  through  the  halls  so  lately  loud  in  mirth. 
And  leaves  pale  Sorrow  weeping  by  the  hearth  , 
Bitter  it  is  to  wander  there  alone, 

To  fill  the  vacant  place,  the  empty  chair, 
With  a  dear  vision  of  the  loved  one  gone, 

And  start  to  see  it  vaguely  melt  m  air  ! 
Bitter  to  find  all  joy  that  once  hath  been 

Double  its  value  when  'tis  pass'd  away, — 
To  feel  the  blow  which  Time  should  make  less 
keen 

Increase  its  burden  each  successive  day, — 
To  need  good  counsel,  and  to  miss  the  voice, 

The  ever  trusted,  and  the  ever  true, 
WThose  tones  were  wont  to  cheer  our  faltering 
choice, 

And  show  what  holy  Virtue  bade  us  do, — 
To  bear  deep  wrong  and  bow  the  widow'dhead 

In  helpless  anguish,  no  one  to  defend  ; 
Or  worse, — in  lieu  of  him,  the  kindly  dead, 

Claim  faint  assistance  from  some  lukewarm 

friend — 

Yet  scarce  perceive  the  extent  of  all  our  loss 
Till  the  fresh  tomb   be  green    with  gathering 

moss — 
Till  many  a  morn  have  met  our  sadden'd  eyes, 

With  none  to  say  "  Good  morrow;" — manj 
an  eve 


THE  TREAM.  69 

fiend  it 3  red  glory  through  the  tranq-ail  skies, 
Eacn  bringing  with  it  deeper  cause  to  grieve ! 

"  This  is  a  destiny  which  may  be  thine — 
The   common  grief:    God  will'd  it  should  ba 

mine  : 

Short  was  the  course  our  happy  love  had  run, 
And  hard  it  was  to  say  '  Thy  will  be  done  !' 

*'  Yet  those  whom  man,  not  God,  hath  part 
ed,  know 

A  heavier  pang,  a  more  enduring  woe  ; 
No  softening  memory  mingles  with  their  tears, 
Still    the    wound  rankles   on    through    dreary 

years, 

Still  the  heart  feels,  in  bitterest  hours  of  blame, 
It  dares  not  curse  the  long-familiar  name  ; 
Still,  vainly  free,  through  many  a  cheerless  day, 
From  weaker  ties  turn  helplessly  away, 
Sick  for  the  smiles  that  bless'd  its  home  of  yore, 
The  natural  joys  of  life  that  come  no  more  ; 
And,  all  bewilder'd  by  the  abyss,  whose  gloom 
Dark  and  impassable  as  is  the  tomb, 
Lies    stretch'd    between    the   future    and    the 

past, — 
Sinks  into  deep  and  cold  despair  at  last. 

v  "  Heaven  give  thee  poverty,  disease,  or  death. 
Each  varied  ill  that  waits  on  human  breath, 
Rather  than  bid  thee  linger  out  thy  life 
In  the  long  toil  of  such  unnatural  strife. 
To  wander  through  the  world  unreconciled, 


60  THE   DREAM. 

Heart  weary  as  a  spirit-broken  child, 
And  think  it  were  an  hour  of  bliss  like  neavcn 
If  thou  could'st  die — forgiving  and  forgiven,— 
Or  with  a  feverish  hope  of  anguish  born, 
(Nerving  thy  mind  to  feel  indignant  scorn 
Of  all  the  cruel  foes  who  'twixt  ye  stand, 
Holding  thy  heartstrings  with  a  reckless  hand,) 
Steal  to  his  presence,  now  unseen  so  long, 
And  claim  his  mercy  who  hath  dealt  the  wrong  ! 
Into  the  aching  depths  of  thy  poor  heart 

Dive,  as  it  were,  even  to  the  roots  of  pain, 
And  wrench  up  thoughts  that  tear  thy  soul  apart, 

And  burn  like  fire  through  thy   bewilder'd 

brain. 

Clothe  them  in  passionate  words  of  wild  appeal 
To  teach  thy  fello  w-creature  how  to  feel, — 
Pray,    weep,    exhaust    thyself   in    maddening 

tears, — 

Recall  the  hopes,  the  influences  of  years, — 
Kneel,  dash  thyself  upon  the  senseless  ground. 
Writhe   as   the   worm    writhes    with    dividing' 

wound, — 

Invoke  the  heaven  that  knows  thy  sorrow's  truth, 
By  all  the  softening  memories  of  youth — 
By  every  hope  that  cheer'd  thine  earlier  day — 
By  every  tear  that  washes  wrath  away — 
By  every  old  remembrance  long  gone  by — 
Bj  every  pang  that  makes  thee  yearn  to  die  ; 
And  learn  at  length  how  deep  and  stern  a  blow 
Near  hands  can  strike,  and  yet  no  pity  show  ' 

11  Oh  !  weak  to  suffer,  savage  to  inflict,  ^ 

la  man's  commingling  nature;  hear  him  now 


THE  DREAM.  61 

Some  transient  trial  of  his  life  depict, 

Hear  him  in  holy  rites  a  suppliant  bow  ; 
See  him  shrink  back  from  sickness  and  from 

pain, 

And  in  his  sorrow  to  his  God  coVnplain  ; 
*  Remit  my  trespass,  spare  my  sin,'  he  cries, 
'  All-merciful,  Almighty,  and  All-wise  ; 
Quench  this  affliction's  bitter  whelming  tide, 
Draw  out  thy  barbed  arrow  from  my  side  :'— 
— And  rises  from  that  mockery  of  prayer 
To  hale  some  brother-debtor  to  despair ! 

"  May  this  be  spared  thee  !  Yet  be  sure,  mv 

child, 

•Jlowe'er  that  dream  thy  fancy  hath  beguiled,) 
Some  sorrow  lurks  to  cloud  thy  future  fate  ; 
Thy  share  of  tears, — come  early  or  come  late,— 
Must  still  be  shed  ;  and  'twere  as  vain  a  thing 
To  ask  of  Nature  one  perpetual  spring 
As  to  evade  those  sad  autumnal  hours, 
Or  deem    thy  path   of  life  should  bloom,  all 

flowers." 

She  ceased:  and  that  fair  maiden  heard  the 

truth 

With  the  fond  passionate  despair  of  youth, 
Which,  new  1o  suffering,  gives  its  sorrow  vent 
In  outward  signs  and  bursts  of  wild  lament  :— 

"  If  this  be  so,  then,  mother,  let  me  die 
Ere  yet  the  glow  hath  faded  from  my  sky  ! 
Let  me  die  young ;  before  the  holy  trust 


62  THE  DREAM. 

In  human  kindness  crumbles  into  dust ) 
Before  I  suffer  what  I  have  not  earn'd, 
Or  see  by  treachery  my  truth  return'd ; 
Before  the  love  I  live  for,  fades  away  ; 
Before  the  hopes  I  cherish' d  most,  decay  ; 
Before  the  withering  touch  of  fearful  change 
Makes  some  familiar  face  look  cold  and  strangle, 
Or  some  dear  heart,  close  knitted  to  my  own, 
By  perishing,  hath  left  me  more  alone  ! 
Though  death  be  bitter,  I  can  brave  its  pain 
Better  than  all  which  threats  if  I  remain : 
While  my  soul,  freed  from  ev'ry  chance  of  ill, 
Soars  to  that  God  whose  high  mysterious  will 
Sent  me,  foredoom'd  to  grief,  with  wandering 

feet, 
To  group  my  way  through  all  this  fair  deceit !" 

Her  parent  heard  the  words  with  grieved 

amaze, 
And  thus  return'd,  with  calm  reproving  gaze  : — 

'  Blaspheme  not  Heaven  with  rash  impatient 

speech, 

Nor  deem,  at  thine  own  hour,  its  rest  to  reach, 
Unhappv  child!  The  full  appointed  time 
Is  His  to  choose  ;  and  when  the  sullen  chime, 
And  deep-toned  striking  of  the  funeral  bell, 
Thy  fate  to  earthly  ears  shall  sadly  tell, 
Oh  !  may  the  death  thou  talk'st  of  as  a  boon, 
find  thee  prepared, — nor  come  even  then  too 
soon! 


THE  DREAM.  63 

"  True,  ere  them  meet'st  fhat  long  and  dream 
less  sleep, 
Thy  heart  must  ache — thy  weary  eyes  must 

weep : 

It  is  our  human  lot!  The  fariest  child 
That  e'er  on  loving  mother  brightly  smiled,-— 
Most   watch' d,   most  tended — ere   his  eyelids 

close, 

Hath  had  his  little  share  of  infant  woes, 
And  dies  familiar  with  the  sense  of  grief, 
Though  for  all  else  his  life  hath  been  too  brief! 
But  shall  we  therefore,  murmuring  against  God, 
Question  the  justice  of  his  chastening  rod, 
And  look  to  earthly  joys  as  though  they  were 
The  prize  immortal  souls  were  given  to  share  ? 
"  Oh  !  were  such  joys  and  this  vain  world  alone 
The   term  of  human    hope — where,    where 

would  be 
The  victims  of  some  tyranny  unknown, 

Who  sank,  still  conscious  that  the  mind  was 

free? 

They  that  have  lain  in  dungeons  years  on  years, 
No  voice  to  cheer  their  darkness, — they  whose 

pain 

Of  horrid  torture  wrung  forth  blood  with  tears, 

Murder' d,  perhaps,  for  some  rapacious  gain, — • 

They  who  have  stood,  bound  to  the  martyr's 

stake, 

While  the  sharo  flames  ale-through  the  blister 
ing  skin,—» 

They  that  have  bled  for  some  high  cause's 
sake,— 


64  THE  DREAM. 

They  that  have  perish'd  for  another's  sin, 
And  from  the  scaffold  to  that  God  appeal' d 
To  whom  the  naked  heait  is  all  reveal'd, 
Against  the  shortening  of  life's  narrow  span 
By  the  blind  rage  and  false  decree  of  man  ? 
And  where  obscurer  sufferers — they  who  slept 

And  left  no  name  on  history's  random  page, 
But  in  God's  book  of  reckoning,  sternly  kept, 

Live  on  from  year  to  year,  from  age  to  age  ? 
The  poor — the   laboring  poor !    whose   wearj 
lives, 

Through  many  a  freezing  night  and  hungry 

day, 
Are  a  reproach  tof  him  who  only  strives 

In  luxury  to  waste  his  hours  away, — 
The  patient  poor !  whose  insufficient  means 

Make  sickness  dreadful,  yet  by  whose  low  bed 
Oft  in  meek  prayers  some  fellow  sufferer  leans, 

And  trusts  in  Heaven  while  destitute  of  bread  ; 
The  workhouse  orphan,  left  without  a  friend; 

Or  weak  forsaken  child  of  want  and  sin, 
Whose  helpless  life  begins,  as  it  must  end, 

By  men  disputing  who  shall  take  rt  in  ; 
Who  clothe,  who  aid  that  spark  to  linger  here, 

Which  for  mysterious    purpose     God  hath 

given 
To  struggle  through  a  day  of  toil  and  fear, 

And    meet  him — with    the  proudest — up  in 

heaven  ! 
These  were,  and  are  not:-— shall  we  therefore 

deem 
That  they  have  vanish' d  like  a  sleeper's  dream  f 


THE  EREAM.  65 

Or  that  one  half  creation  is  to  know 
Luxurious  joy,  and  others  only  woe, 
And  so  go  down  into  the  common  tomb, 
With  none  to  question  their  unequal  doom  ? 
Shall  we  give  credit  to  a  thought  so  fond? 
Ah  !  no — the  world  beyond — the  world  beyond  . 
There,  shall  the  desolate  heart  regain  its  own  . 
There,  the  oppress'd  shall  stand  before  God'a 

throne  ! 

There,  when  the  tangled  web  is  all  explain'd, 
Wrong  suffer'd,  pain  inflicted,  grief  disdain'd, 
Man's  proud  mistaken  judgments  and  false  scorn 
Shall  melt  like  mists  before  uprising  morn, 
And  holy  truth  stand  forth  serenely  bright, 
In  the  rich  flood  of  God's  eternal  light! 

"  Then  shall  the  Lazarus  of  the  earth  have 

rest— 
The   rich    man   judgment — and   the    grieving 

breast 

Deep  peace  for  ever.     Therefore  look  thou  not 
So  much  to  what  on  earth  shall  be  thy  lot, 
As  to  thy  fate  hereafter, — to  that  day 
When  like  a  scroll  this  world  shall  pass  away, 
And  what  thou  here  hast  done,  or  here  enjoy'd, 
Import  but  to  thy  soul  : — all  else  destroyed  ! 

''  And  have  thou  faith  in  human  nature  still  j 
Though  evil  thoughts  abound,  and  acts  of  ill ; 
Though  innocence  in  sorrow  shrouded  be. 
And  tyranny's  strong  step  walk  bold  and  free! 
For  many  a  kindly  generous  deed  is  done 


66  THE  DREAM. 

Which  loaves  no  record  underneath  the  sun-™ 
Self-abnegating  love  and  humble  worth, 
Which  yet  shall  consecrate  our  sinful  earth  ! 
He  that  deals  blame,  and  yet  forgets  to  praise, 
Who  sets  brief  storms  against  long  summer-days^ 
Hath  a  sick  judgment.     Shall  the  usual  joy 
Be  all  forgot,  and  nought  our  minds  employ, 
Through  the  long  course  of  ever-varing  years, 
But  temporary  pain  and  casual  tears  ? 
And  shall  we  all  condemn,  and  all  distrust, 
Because  some  men  are  false  and  some  unjust  ? 
Forbid  it  heaven!  far  better  'twere  to  be 
Dupe  of  the  fond  impossibility 
Of  light  and  radiance  which  thy  vision  gave, 
Than  thus  to  live  Suspicion's  bitter  slave. 
Give  credit  to  thy  mortal  brother's  heart 
For  all  the  good  than  in  thine  own  hath  part. 
And,  cheerfully  as  honest  prudence  may. 
Trust  to  his  proffer'd  hand's  protecting  stay  : 
For  God,  who  made  this  teeming  earth  so  full, 
And  made  the  proud  dependent  on  the  dull — 
The  strong  upon  the  weak — thereby  would  show 
One  common  bond  should  link  us  all  below. 

"  And  visit  not  with  a  severer  scorn 
Faults,  whose  deop  root  was  with  our  nature 

born, 
From  which — though  others  woo'dthee  just  as 

vain — 

Thou,  differently  tempted,  didst  abstain  : 
Nor  dwell  on  points  of  creed — assuming  right 
To  judge  how  holy  in  his  Maker's  sight 


THE  DREAM.  67 

Is  he  who  at  a  different  altar  bends  ; 

For   hence   have    ris'n  the   bitterest   feuds  of 

friends, 

The  wildest  wars  of  nations  ;  age  on  age 
Hath  desecrated  thus  dark  History's  page  ; 
And   still  (though  not,  perhaps,  with  fire  and 

sword) 

Reckless  we  raise  '  The  banner  of  the  Lord !' 
Mock  Heaven's  calm  mercy  by  the  plea  we 

make, 

That  all  is  done  for  gentle  Jesus'  sake, — 
Disturb  the  consciences  of  weaker  men, — 
Employ  the  scholar's  art,  the  bigot's  pen,— 
And  rouse  the  wrathful  and  the  spirit-proud 
To  language  bitter,  vehement,  and  loud, 
Whose  unconvincing  fury  wounds  the  ear, 
And  seeking,  with  some   sharp  and  haughty 

sneer, 

How  best  the  opposing  party  may  be  stung, — 
Pleads  for  religion  with  a  devil's  tongue  ! 

*'  Oh !  shall  God  tolerate  the  meanest  prayer 

That  humbly  seeks  his  high  stipernal  throne, 
And  man — presumptuous  Pharisee — declare 

His  fellow's  voice  less  welcome  than  his  own  ? 
Is  it  a  theme  for  wild  and  warring  words 

How  best,  to  satisfy  the  Maker's  claim  ? 
In  rendering  to  the  Lord  what  is  the  Lord's, 

Doth  not  the  thought  of  violence  bring  shame  I 
Think  ye  he  gave  the  branching  forest  tree 

To  furnish  fagots  for  the  funeral  pyre  ? 
Or  bid  his  sunrise  light  the  world,  to  see 


68  THE  DREAM. 

Pale  tortured  victims  perish  ther*  by  fire  ? 
No  !  oft  on  earth,  dragg'd  forth  in  pain  to  die, 

The  heretic  may  groan — the  martyr  bleed- 
But,  set  before  his  Sovereign  Judge  on  high, 

"Pis   man's  offence   condemns  him,   not  his 

creed. 
His  first  commandment  was  to  worship  Him  ; 

His  next — to  love  the  creature  He  hath  made  : 
How  blind  the  eyes  of  those  who  read,  how  dim, 

Who  see  not  here  rejigious  fury  stay'd  ! 
From  the  proud  half- fulfilment  of  his  law 

Sternly  he  turns  away  his  awful  face, 
Nor  will  contentment  from  their  service  draw, 

Who  fail  to  grant  a  fellow-creature  grace. 
Haply  the  days  of  martyrdom  are  past, 

But  still  we  see,  without  a  visible  end, 
The  bitter  warfare  of  opinion  last, 

Tho'  God  hath  will'd  that  man  should   be 

man's  friend. 
Therefore  do  thou,  e'er  yet  thy  youthful  heart 

Be  tinged  with  their  revilings,  safe  retreat, 
And  in  those  fierce  discussions  bear  no  part,— 

Odius  in  all — in  woman  most  unmeet, — 
But  in  the  still  dark  night,  and  rising  day, 
Humbly  collect  thy  thoughts,  and  humbly  pray. 

11  And  be  not  thou  cast  down,  because  thy  loJ 
The  glory  of  thy  dream  resembleth  not. 
Not  for  herself  was  woman  first  create, 
NOT  yet  to  be  man's  idol,  but  his  mate. 
Still  from  his  birth  his  cradled  bed  she  tends, 
The  first,  the  last,  the  faithfuleat  of  friends; 


THE  DREAM.  69 

Still  finds  her  place  in  sickness  or  in  woe, 
Humble  to  comfort,  strong  to  undergo  ; 
Still  in  the  depth  of  weeping  sorrow  tries 
To  watch  his  death -bed  with  her  patient  eyes ! 
And  doubt   not  thou, — (although  at  times  de. 

ceived, 
Outraged,    insulted,     slander'd,    crush'd,    and 

grieved  ; 

Too  often  made  a  victim  or  a  toy, 
With  years  of  sorrow  for  an  hour  of  joy  ; 
Too  oft  forgot  midst  Pleasure's  circling  wiles, 
Or  only  valued  for  her  rosy  smiles,— )° 
That  in  the  frank  and  generous  heart  of  man, 
The  place  she  holds  accords  with  Heaven's  hig1! 

plan ; 

Still,  if  from  wandering  sin  reclaim'd  at  all, 
He  sees  in  her  the  angel  of  recall; 
Still,  in  the  sad  and  serious  hours  of  life, 
Turns  to  the  sister,  mother,  friend  or  wife  ; 
Views  with  a  heart  of  fond  and  trustful  pride 
His  faithful  partner  by  his  calm  fireside  ; 
And  oft,  when  barr'd  of  Fortune's  fickle  grace, 
Blank  ruin  stares  him  darkly  in  the  face, 
Leans  his  faint  head  upon  her  kindly  breast, 
And  owns  her  power  to  soothe  him  intorest,- 
Owns  what  the  gift  of  woman's  love  is  worth 
To  cheer  his  toils  and  trials  upon  earth  ! 

"  Sure  it  is  much,  this  delegated  power 
To  be  consoler  of  man's  heaviest  hour  ! 
The  guardian  angel  of  a  life  of  care, 
Allow'd  to  stand  'twist  him  and  his  despair! 


70  THE   DREAM. 

Such  service  may  be  made  a  holy  lask  ; 
And  more,  'twere  vain  to  hope,  and  rash  to  ask 
Therefore,  oh  !  loved  and  lovely,  be  content, 
And  take  thy  lot,  with  joy  and  sorrow  blent/ 
Judge  none ;  yet  let  thy  share  of  conduct  be, 
As  knowing  judgment  shall  be  pass'd  on  thee 
Here  and  hereafter  ;  so,  still  undismay'd, 
And  guarded  by  thy  sweet  thoughts'  tranquil 

shade, 

Undazzled  by  the  changeful  rays  which  threw 
Their  light  across  thy  path  while  life  was  new, 
Thou  shall  move  sober  on, — expecting  less, 
Therefore  the  more  enjoying,  happiness." 

There   was  a  pause  ;  then,  with  a  tremulous 

smile, 
The  maiden  turn'd  and  press'd  her  mother's 

hand  : — 
"  Shall    I    not    bear    what    thou    hast    borne 

e'rewhile  ? 
Shall  I,  rebellious,  Heaven's  high  will  with- 

stand  ? 

No  !  cheerly  on,  my  wandering  path  I'll  take, 
Nor  fear  the  destiny  I  did  not  make  : 
Though  earthly  joy  grow  dim— though  pleasure 

waneth — 
Tfcis  thou  hast  taught  thy  child,  that  GOD  re« 

maineth!" 

And  from  her  mother's  fond  protecting  side 
She  went  into  the  wurld  a  youthful  bride. 


A  DESTINY. 


THERE  wag  a  lady,  who  had  early  wed 

One  whom  she  saw  and  loved  in  her  bright 

youth, 

When  life  was  yet  untried — and  when  he  said 
He,  too,  lov'd  her,  he  spoke  no   more   than 

truth ; 

He  lov'd  as  well  as  baser  nature  can, — 
But  a  mean  heart  and  soul  were  in  that  man. 

And  they  dwelt  happily,  if  happy  be 

Not  with  harsh  words  to   breed  unnatural 
strife : 

The  cold  world's  Argus-watching  failed  to  see 
The  flaw  that  dimm'd  the  lustre  of  their  life; 

Save  that  he  seem'd  tyrannical,  tho'  gay, 

Restless  and  selfish  in  his  love  of  sway. 

The  calm  of  conscious  power  was  not  in  him  ; 

But  rather  struggling  into  broader  light, 
The  secret  sense,  they  feel,  however  dim, 

Whose  chance  position  gives  a  sort  of  right 
(As  from  the  height  of  a  prescriptive  throne,} 
To  govern  natures  nobler  than  their  own. 

71 


72  A   DESTINT. 

And  as  her  youth  waned  slowly  on,  there  fell 

A  nameless  shadow  on  that  lady's  heart ; 
And  those  she  lov'd  the  best  (and  she  lov'd  well,) 

Had  of  her  confidence  nor  share,  nor  part ; 
Her  thoughts    lay  folded  from  life's  lessening 

light, 

Like  the  sweet  flosvers  that  close  themselves  at 
night. 

And  men  began  to  whisper  evil  things 
Against  the  honor  of  her  wedded  mate  ; 

That  which  had  pass'd  for  youth's  wild  wander 

ings, 
Showed  more  suspicious  in  his  settled  state  ; 

Until  at  length, — he  stood,  at  some  chance  game 

Discover'd, — branded  with  a  Cheater's  name. 

Out,  and  away  he  slunk,  with  felon  air; 

Then,  calling  to  him  one  who  was  his  friend, 
Bid  him  to  that  unblemish'd  wife  repair 

And  tell  her  what  had  chanced,  and  what  the 

end ; 

How  they  must  leave  the  country  of  their  birth, 
And  hide, — in  spme  more  distant  spot  of  earth. 

It  was  a  coward's  thought :  he  could  not  bear 
Himself  to  be  na  -rator  of  his  sharrie  ; 

He  that  had  trampled  oft,  now  felt  in  fear 

Of   her   who   still   must  keep   his    blighted 
name, — 

And  shrank  in  fancy  from  that  steadfast  eyo. 

The  window  to  a  soul  so  pure  and  high. 


A   DESTINY.  73 

She  heard  it.     O'er  her  brow  there  pass'd  a 

flush 

Of  sunset  red  ;  and  then  so  white  a  hue, 
So  deadly  pale,  it  seem'd  as  if  no  blush 
Through  that  transparent  cheek  should  shino 

anew ; 

As  if  the  blood  had  frozen  in  that  hour, 
And  her  check'd  pulse  ibr  ever  lost  its  power. 

And  twice  and  once  did  she  essay  to  speak  ; 

And  with  a  gesture  almost  of  command, 
(Though  in  its  motion  it  was  deadly  weak) 

She  faintly  lifted  up  her  graceful  hand  : — 
But  then  her  soul  came  back  to  her,  strength 

woke, 
And  with  a  low  but  even  voice,  she  spoke  : 

"  Go  !    say  to   him  who  dreamed  of  other 

chance, 

That  HERE  none  sit  in  judgment  on  his  sin  ; 
That  to  his  door  the  world's  scorn  may  advance, 

And  cloud  his  path,  but  doth  not  enter  in. 
Here  dwell  his  Own :  to  share,  to  soothe  dis 
grace  ;" — 
Which  having  said,  she  cover'd  up  her  face. 

And,  as  he  left  her,  sank  in  bitter  prayer, — 
If  prayer  that  may  be  term'd  which  comes  to 

all, 
That  sudden  gushing  of  our  vain  despair, 

When  none  but  G?d  can  hear  or  heed  oui 
call 


74  A-    DESTINY. 

And  the  wreck  d  soul  feels,  in  its  helpless  hour, 
Where  cwily  dwells  full  mercy  with  full  power. 

And  he  came  home,  a  crush' d  and  humbled 

wretch  ; 
Whom  when  she  saw,  she  but  this  comfort 

found, 
In  her  kind  arms  that  shrinking  form  to  catch, 

Which  tenderly  about  his  neck  she  wound, 
As  in  the  first  proud  days  of  love  and  trust, 
E're  yet  his  reckless  head  was  bow'd  in  dust ; 

And  they  departed  to  a  distant  shore  ; 

But  wheresoe'er  they  dwelt,  however  lone, 
Shame,  like  a  marble  statue  at  his  door, 

Flung  her  'thwart  shadow  o'er  his  threshold 

stone  ; 

Still  darken'd  all  their  daylight  hours,  and  kept 
Cold  watch  above  them  even  while  they  slept. 

And  there  was  no  more  love  between  these  two ! 

It  died  not  in  the  shock  of  that  dark  hour — 
Such  shocks  destroy  not  love,  whose  purple  hue 

Fades    rather    like    some    autumn-wither'd 

flower, 

Which  day  by  day  along  the  ruin'd  walk 
We  see — then  miss  it  from  the  sapless  stalk ; 

And,  while  it  fadeth,  oft  with  gentle  hand 
Doth  memory  turn  to  life's  dark  journal-book 

And,  passing  foul  misdeeds,  intently  stand 
On  its  first  page  of  glorious  hope  to  look ; 


A    DESTINY.  75 

Weeping  she  reads, — and,  seeing  all  so  fair, 
Pleads  hard  for  what  we  are,  by  what  we  were  ! 

So  through  that  hour  love  Jived ;  and,  though  in 
part 

'Twas  one  of  most  unutter".ble  pain, 
It  had  its  sweetness  too,  and  told  her  heart 

All  she  could  do,  and  all  she  could  sustain ; 
The  holy  love  of  woman  buoy'd  her  up, 
And  God  gave  strength  to  drink  the  bitter  cup. 

But  when,  as  days  crept  on,  she  saw  him  still 
Less  grateful  than  abash' d  beneath  her  eye, 

And  studying  not  how  best  to  banish  ill, 
But  what  he  might  conceal  and  what  deny, 

Her  soul  revolted,  and  conceived  a  scorn, 

Sinful  and  harsh,  although  of  virtue  born.  _ 

And  oft  she  pray'd,  with  earnestness  and  pain, 
That  heaven  would  bid  that  proud  contempt 
depart, 

And  wept  to  find  the  prayer  and  effort  vain, 
Though  it  was  breath'd  in  agony  of  heart — • 

Vain  as  the  murmur  of  "  Thy  will  be  done," 

Breathed  by  the  death-bed  of  an  only  son  ! 

For  when  her  children  err'd  (as  children  will) 
A  sickening  terror  smote  her  heart  with  fears, 

And  scarce  she  measured  the  degree  of  ill, 
Or  made  indulgence  for  their  tender  years ; 

They  were  HIS   children  ;    and  the   chance  <gf 
shame 

Kept  watch  for  those  \vhobore  that  father's  name. 


76  A  DESTINY. 

And,  thinking  thus,  reproof  would  take  a  lone 
So  strangely  passionate,  severe,  and  wild,— 

So  deeply  altered, — so  unlike  her  own, — 
It  stung  and  terrified  her  startled  child, 

Whose  innate  sense  of  justice  seemed  to  show 

Him  over-chidden,  being  chidden  so. 

And  then  a  gush  of  mother's  love  would  swell 
Her  grieving  heart, — and  she  would  fondly 

press 

The  young  offending  head  she  loved  so  well 
Close  to  her  own,  with  many  a  soft  caress, 
Whose  reconciling  sweetness  all  in  vain 
Stopp'd  her  boy's  tears,  while  her's  ran  down 
like  rain. 

The  world  (which  still  pronounces  from  the  show 
Of  outward   things)   whisper'd   and  talk'd  of 
this  ; 

Erring  and  obstinate,  its  crowds  ne'er  knew 
How  much  in  judging  they  may  judge  amiss, 

Or  how  much  agony  and  broken  peace 

May  lie  beneath  the  seeming  of  caprice  ! 

But  he,  her  husband  (for  he  was  not  dull,) 
Saw   through  these  workings  of  a  troubled 
mind, 

And,  that  her  cup  of  sorrow  might  be  full, 
He  taunted  her  with  words  and  looks  unkind* 

Which  with  a  patient  bowing  of  the  heart 

She  took — like  one  resolved  to  do  her  part. 


A  DEST/NY.  77 

And  years  stole  on  (for  years  go  by  like  diys, 
Leaving   but  scatter' d  hours  to  mark  their 

course,) 

And  brightness  faded  from  that  lady's  gaze, 
And  her  cheek  hollow'd,  and  her  step  los* 

force, 

Till  it  was  plain  to  even  a  careless  eye 
That  she  was  doom'd,  before  her  time,  to  die. 

She  died,  as  she  had  lived,  her  secret  soul 
Shut    from   the  sweet  communion  of  true 

friends ; 
Her  words,  though  not  her  thoughts,  she  could 

control, 
And  still   with  calm  respect  his  name  she 

blends : 
They  all  stood  round  her  whom  she  call'd  her 

own, 
And  saw  her  die — yet  was  that  death-bed  lone  ! 

But  in  its  darkest  hour  her  thoughts  were  stirr'd 

And  something  falter'd  from  her  dying  tongue, 

Mournful    and  tender — half  pronounced,   half 

heard — 
For  which  he  was   too  base — his  boys  too 

young  ; 

So,  whatsoe'er  the  warning  faintly  given, 
It  lay  between  her  parting  soul  and  Heaven, 

He  wept  for  her — ah !  who  would  not  have  wept 

To  see  that  worn  face  in  its  pallid  shroud, 
Proving  how  much  she  suffer 'd  ere  she  slept 


78  A  EESTINY. 

At  peace  for  ever  !  Violent  and  loud 
Was  the  outbreaking  of  his  sudden  gritt, 
And,  like  all  feelings  in  that  heart,  'twas  brief. 

And  something  strange  pass'd  o'er  his  soul  in 


When  thinking  upon  her  whom  he  had  lost, 
Almost  like  a  relief  that  she  was  dead  : — 
She,  whose  high  nature  scorn'd  his  fault  the 

most, 
And  show'd  it  least, — had  vanish' d  from    tha 

earth, 

And  none  could  check  his  sin,  or  shame  his 
mirth. 

So  he  return' d  to  many  an  evil  way, 
Like  one  who  strays  when  guiding   light  is 

gone  ; 
And  mid  the  profligate,  miscall'd  "  the  gay," 

Crept  to  a  slippery  place — his  tale  half  known- 
Ill  look'd  on,  yet  endured — the  useful  tool 
Of  every  bolder  knave,  or  richer  fool. 

And  his  two  sons  in  careless  beauty  grew, 
Like  wild  flowers  in  his  path:  he  mark'd  them 

not, 
Nor  reck'd  he  what  they  needed,  learnt,  or 

knew, 

Or  what  might  be  on  earth  their  future  lot  ; 
But  they  died  young — which  is  a  thought  of 

rest ! — 
Unscorn'd,  untempted,  undefiled— so  best. 


THE  CREOLE  GIRL 


E.le  etait  de  ce  monde,  ou  les  plus  belles  chose* 

Out  le  pire  destin  ; 
Et  Rose,  elle  a  vecu  ce  que  vivent  les  Roses, 

L'espace  d'un  matin  1 


SHE  came  to  England  from  the  island  clime 
Which  lies  beyond  the  far  Atlantic  wave  ; 

She  died  in  early  youth — before  her  time — 
' '  Peace  to  her  broken  heart,  and  virgin  grave! ' 

She  was  the  child  of  Passion,  and  of  Shame, 
English  her  father,  and  of  noble  birth; 

Though  too  obscure  for  good  or  evil  fame, 
Her  unknown  mother  faded  from  the  earth. 

And  what  that  fair  West  Indian  did  betide, 
None  knew   but  he,  who   least  of  all  mighs! 
tell,— 

But  that  she  lived,  and  loved,  and  lonely  died, 
And  sent  this  orphan  child  with  him  to  dwell 

Oh  !  that  a  fair,  an  innocent  young  face 
Should  have  a  poison  in  its  looks  alone, 

79 


80  THE  CREOLE  GIRL. 

To  raise  up  thoughts  of  sorrow  and  disgrace 
And  shame  most  bitter,  although  not  its  own  I 

Cruel  were  they  who  flung  that  heavy  shade 
Across  the  life  whose  days  did  but  begin ; 
Cruel  were  they   wh<f   crush' d  he.-  heart,  and 

made 

Her  youth  pay  penance   for  his  youth's  wild 
sin; 

Yet  so  it  M'as  ; — among  her  father's  friends 
A  cold  compassion  made  contempt  seem  li^ht, 

But,  in  "  the  world,"  no  justice  e'er  defends 
The    victims    of  their    tortuous   wrong  and 
right  :— 

And   "  moral  England,"   striking    down   tha 

weak, 

And  smiling  at  the  vices  of  the  strong, 
On  her,  poor  child  !    her  parent's  guilt  wouU 

wreak, 

And  that  which  was  her  grievance,  made  hei 
wrong. 

The  world  she  understood  not ;  nor  did  they 
Who  made  that  world, — her,  either,  under 
stand  ; 

The  very  glory  of  her  features'  play 
Seem'd  like  the  language  of  a  foreign  land; 

The  shadowy  feelings,  rich  and  wild  and  warm. 
That  glow'd  and  mantled  in  her  lovely  face,- 


THE  CREOLE   GIRL.  81 

The  slight  full  beauty  of  her  youthfjd  forn^ 
Its  gentle  majesty,  its  pliant  grace, — 

The  languid  lustre  of  her  speaking  eye, 

The  indolent  smile  of  that  bewitching  mouth, 

(Which  more  than  all  betray'd  her  natal  sky, 
And  left  us  dreaming  of  the  sunny  South,) — 

The  passionate  variation  of  her  blood, 

Which  rose   and  sank,  as  rise  and  sink  the 

waves, 

With  every  change  of  her  most  changeful  mood, 
Shocked  sickly   Fashion's  pale  and  guarded 
slaves. 

And  so  in  this  fair  world  she  stood  alone, 
An  alien  'mid  the  ever-moving  crowd, 

A  wandering  stranger,  nameless  and  unknown 
Her  claim  to  human  kindness  disallow'd. 

But  oft  would  Passion's  bold  and  burning  gaze, 

And  Curiosity's  set  frozen  stare, 
Fix  on  her  beauty  in  those  early  days, 

And  coarsely  thus  her  loveliness  declare  ! 

Which  she  would  shrink  from,   as  the   gentl* 
plant, 

Fern-leaved  Mimosa  folds  itself  away  ; 
Buffering  and  sad  ; — for  easy  'twas  to  daunt 

One  who  on  earth  had  no  protecting  stay. 

And  often  to  her  eye's  transparent  lid 
The  unshed  tears  would  rise  with  sudden  start, 
6 


82  T«E  CREOLE  STRL. 

And  sink  again,  as  though  by  Reason  chid, 
Back  to  their  gentle  home,  her  wounded  heart, 

Even  as  some  gushing  fountain  idly  wells 
Up  to  the  prison  of  its  marble  side, 

Whose    power   the    mounting    wave    forever 

quells, — 
So  rose  her  tears — -so  stemm'd  by  virgin  pride 

And  so  more  lonely  each  succeeding  day, 
As  she  her  lot  did  better  understand, 

She,  lived  a  life  which  had  in  it  decay, 

A  flower  transplanted  to  too  cold  a  land, — 

Which  for  a  while  gives  out  a  hope  of  bloom, 
Then  fades  and  pines,  because  it  may  not  feel 

The  freedom  and  the  warmth  which  gave  it 

room 
The  beauty  of  its  nature  to  reveal. 

For  vainly  would  the  heart  accept  its  lot, 
And  rouse  its  strength  to   bear   avow'd  con 
tempt, 

Scorn  will  be  felt  as  scorn — deserved  or  not — 
And  from  its  bitter  spell  none  stand  exempt 

There  is  a  basilisk  power  in  human  eyes 
When  they  would  look  a  fellow-creature  down, 
Neath  which  the  faint  soul  fascinated  lies, 
Struck  by  the  cold  sneer  and  the  with'ring 
frown. 

B.Jt  one  there  was  among  the  cruel  crowd, 
Whose  nature  /ia/,rrebeH'd  against  the  chain, 


THE   CREOLE  GIRL.  83 

Which  fashian  flung  around  him ;  though  too 

proud 
To  own  that  slavery's  weariness  and  pain. 

Too  proud  ;  perhaps  too  weak  ;  for  Custom  still 
Curbs  with  an  iron  bit  the  souls  born  free  ; 

They  start  and  chafe,  yet  bend  them  to  the  will 
Of  this  most  nameless  ruler,— so  did  he. 

And  even  unto  him  the  worldly  brand 
Which  rested  on  her,  half  her  charm  effaced  ; 

Vainly  all  pure  and  radiant  did  she  stand, — 
Even  unto  him  she  was  a  thing  disgraced. 

Had  she  been  early  doom'd  a  cloister'd  nun, 
To  Heaven  devoted  by  an  holy  vow — 

His  union  with  that  poor  deserted  one 

Had  seem'd  not  more  impossible  than  now. 

He  could  have  loved  her — fervently  and  well ; 

But  still  the  cold  world  with  its  false  allure, 
Bound  his  free  liking  in  an  icy  spell, 

And  made  its  whole  foundation  insecure. 

But  not  like  meaner  souls,  would  he,  to  prove 
A  vulgar  admiration,  her  pursue  ; 

For  though  his  glance  after  her  would  rove, 
As  something  beautiful,  and  strange,  and  new. 

They  were  withdrawn  if  but  her  eye  met  his, 
Or,  for  an  instant  if  their  light  remain'd, 

They  soften'd  into  gentlest  tenderness, 
As  asking  pardon  that  his  look  had  pain'd. 


84  THE   CREOLE 

And  she  was  /lothing  unto  him, — nor  he 
Aught  untc  her ;  but  each  of  each  did  dream 

In  the  still  hours  of  thought,  when  we  are  free 
To  quk  the  real  world  for  things  which  seem. 

When  in  his  heart  Love's  folded  wings  would 
stir, 

And  bid  his  youth  choose  out  a  fitting  mate, 
Against  his  will  his  thoughts  roam'd  back  to  her, 

And  all  around  seem'd  blank  and  desolate. 

When,  in  his  worldly  haunts,  a  smother'd  sigh 
Told  he  had  won  some  lady  of  the  land, 

The  dreaming  glances  of  his  earnest  eye 
Beheld  far  off  the  Creole  orphan  stand  ; 

And  to  the  beauty  by  his  side  he  froze, 
As  though  she  were  not  fair,  nor  he  so  young, 

And  turn'd  on  her  such  looks  of  cold  repose 
As  check'd  the  trembling    accents    of  her 
tongue, 

And  bid  her  heart's  dim  passion  seek  to  hide 
Its  gathering  strength,  although  the  task  be 

pain, 

Lest  she  become  that  mock  to  woman's  pride— 
A  wretch  that  loves  unwoo'd,  and  loves  in 
vain. 

So  in  his  heart  she  dwelt, — as  one  may  dwell 
Upon  the  verge  of  a  forbidden  ground  ; 

And  oft  he  struggled  hard  to  break  the  spell 
And  banish  her,  but  vain  the  effort  found ; 


THE   rHEOLE  GIRL.  85 

For  siill  along  the  winding  way  which  led 
luto  his  inmost  soul,  unbidden  came 

Her  haunting  form, — and  he  was  visited 
By  echoes  soft  of  her  unspoken  name, 

Through  the  long  night,  when  those  we  love 

seem  near, 

However  cold,  however  far  away, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  floating  dreams,  which 

cheer 

And  give  us  strength  to  meet  the  struggling 
day. 

And  when  in  twilight  hours  she  roved  apart, 
Feeding  her  love-sick  soul  with  visions  fair, 

The  shadow  of  his  eyes  was  on  her  heart, 
And  the  smooth  masses  of  his  shining  hair 

Rose  in  the  glory  of  the  evening  light, 
And,  where  she  wander'd  glided,  evermore, 

A  star  which  beam'd  upon  her  world's  lone  night 
Where  nothing  glad  had  ever  shone  before. 

But  vague  and  girlish  was  that  love, — no  hope, 
Even  of  familiar  greeting,  ever  cross'd 

Its  innocent,  but,  oh  !  most  boundless  scope  ; 
She  loved  him , — and  she  knew  her  love  was  lost. 

She  gazed  on  him,  as  one  from  out  a  bark, 
Bound  onward  to  a  cold  and  distant  strand, 

Same  lovely  bay,  some  haven  fair  may  mark, 
Stretching  far  inward  to  a  sunnier  land ; 


86  THE   CREDLJ:  GIRL. 

Who,  knowing  he  must  still  sail  on  tn  rns  back 
To  watch  with  dreaming  and  most  mournful 
eyes 

The  ruffling  foam  which  follows  in  his  track, 
Or  the  deep  starlight  of  the  shoreless  skies. 

Oh !  many  a  hopeless  love  like  this  may  be,— 
For  love  will  live  that  never  looks  to  win  • 

Gems  rashly  lost  in  Passion's  stormy  sea, 
Not  to  be  lifted  forth  when  once  cast  in  ! 


PART    IT 


So  time  roll'd  on,  till  suddenly  that  child^ 
Of  southron  clime  and  feelings,  droop'd  and 

pined ; 

Her  cheek  wax'd  paler,  and  her  eye  grew  wild, 
And  from  her  youthful  form  all  strength  de 
clined. 

Twas  then  I  knew  her ;  late  and  vainly  call'd. 
To  "  minister  unto  a  mind  diseased," — 

When  on  her  heart's  faint  sickness  all  thing* 

pall'd, 
And  the  deep  inward  pain  was  never  eased  : 

Her  step  was  always  gentle,  but  at  last 

It  fell  as  lightly  as  a  wither'd  leaf 
In  autumn  hours  ;  and  wheresoo'er  she  pass'd 

Smiles  died  away,  she  look'd  so  full  of  griefc 


THE   CREOLE   GIRL.  87 

And  more  than  ever  from  that  world,  where 

still 
Her  father  hoped   to  place  her,  shs  would 

shrink  ; 

Loving  to  be  alone,  her  thirst  to  fill 
From  the  sweet  fountain  where  the  dream 
ers  drink. 

One  eve,  beneath  the  acacia's  waving  bough, 
Wrapt  in  these  lonely  thoughts  she  sate  and 
read; 

Her  dark  hair  parted  from  her  sunny  brow, 
Her  graceful  arm  beneath  her  languid  head; 

And  droopingly  and  sad  she  hung  above 

The  open  page,  whereon  her  eyes  were  bent, 

AVith  looks  of  fond  regret  and  pining  love  ; 
Nor  heard  my  step,  so  deep  was  she  intent. 

And  when  she  me  perceived,  she  did  not  start, 
But  lifted  up  those  soft  dark  eyes  to  mine, 

And  smiled,  (that  mournful  smile  which  breaks 

the  heart !) 
Then  glanced  again  upon  the  printed  line. 

"  What  readest  thou  ?"  I  ask'd.      With  fervent 

gaze, 
As  though  she  would  have  scann'd  my  inmost 

soul, 

Hhe  turn'd  to  me,  and,  as  a  child  obeys 
The  accustom'd  question  of  revered  control, 


88  THE   CREOLE   GIRL. 

She  pointed  to  the  title  of  that  book, 
(Which,  bending  down,  I  saw  was  '  Coralie,") 

Then  gave  me  one  imploring  piteous  look, 
And   tears,   too   long  restrain'd,  gush'd  last 
and  free. 

It  was  a  tale  of  one,  whose  fate  had  been 
Too  like   her  own  to  make    that   weepvig 
strange  ; 

Like  her,  transplanted  from  a  sunnier  scene  ; 
Like  her,  all  dull'd  and  blighted  by  the  change. 

No  further  word  was  breathed  between  us  two  ;— 
No  confidence  was  made  to  keep  or  break  ;— 

But  since  that  day,  which  pierced  my  soul  quite 

thro', 
My  hand  the  dying  girl  would  faintly  take, 

And  murmur,  as  its  grasp  (ah  !  piteous  end  !) 
Return'd  the  feeble  pressure  of  her  own, 

-'Be  with  me  to  the  last, — for  thou,  dear  friend, 
Hast  all  my  struggles,  all  my  sorrow  known !" 

She  died  .'—The  pulse   of  that  untramrneU'd 

heart 
Fainted  to   stillness.      Those   most  glorious 

eyes 

Closed  on  the  world  where  she  had  dwelt  apart 
And  her  cold  bosom  heaved  no  further  sighs. 

She  died  !~  -and  no  one  mourn'd,  except  hw 
sire, 


THE   CREOLE   GIRL.  89 

Who  for  a  while  look'd  out  with  eyes  more 

dim  ; 

Lone  was  her  place  beside  his  household  fire, 
Vanish' d  the  face  that  ever  smiled  on  him. 

And   no  one   said   to  him — "  Why  mournest 

thou  ?" 

Because  she  was  the  unknown  child  of  shame; 
(Albeit  her  mother  better  kept  the  vow 

Of  faithful   love,  than  some  who  keep  their 
fame.) 

Poor  mother,  and  poor  child  ! — unvalued  lives ! 

Wan  leaves  that  perish'd  in  obscurest  shade  '. 
While  round  me  still  the  proud  world  stirs  and 
strives, 

Say,  Shall  I  weep  that  ye  are  lowly  laid  ? 

Shall  I  mourn  for  ye  ?  No  ! — and  least  for  thee, 
Young  dreamer,  whose  pure  heart  gave  way 
before 

Thy  bark  was  launch'd  upon  Love's  stormy  sea, 
Or  treachery  wreck'd  it  on  the  farther  shore. 

I«east,   least   of  all   for  thee!    Thou  art  gone 

hence  ? 

Thee  never  more  shall  scornful  looks  oppress, 
Thee  the  world  wrings  not  with  some  vain  pre 
tence, 
Nor  chills  thy  tears,  nor  mocks  at  thy  distress. 

From  man's  injustice,  from  the  cold  award 
Of  the  unfeeling    hou  hast  pass'd  away  j 


90  TWILIGHT. 

Thou  'rt  at  the  gates  of  light  wheiB  angels  guard 
Thy  path  to  realms  of  bright  eternal  day. 

There  shall  thy  soul  its  chains  of  slavery  burst, 
There,  meekly  standing  before  God's  nigh 
throne, 

Thou' It  find  the  judgments  of  our  earth  re  versed. 
And  answer  for  no  errors  but  thine  own. 


TWILIGHT. 


IT  is  the  twilight  hour, 

The  daylight  toil  is  done. 
And  the  last  rays  are  departing 

Of  the  cold  and  wintry  sun. 
It  is  the  time  when  Friendship 

Holds  converse  fair  and  free. 
It  is  the  time  when  children 

Dance  round  the  mother's  knee. 
But  my  soul  is  faint  and  heavy, 

With  a  yearning  sad  and  deep, 
By  the  fireside  lone  and  dreary 

I  sit  me  down  and  weep  ! 
Where  are  ye,  merry  voices, 

Whose  clear  and  bird-like  tone, 
Some  other  ear  now  blesses, 

Less  anxious  than  my  own? 
Where  are  ye,  steps  of  lightness, 

Which  fell  like  blossom-showers  f 


TWILIGHT.  91 


Where  are  ye,  sounds  oflaughter, 

That  cheer'd  the  pleasant  hours  I 
Thro'  the  dim  light  slow  declining, 

Where  my  wistful  glances  fall, 
I  can  see  your  pictures  hanging 

Against  the  silent  wall  ;— 
They  gleam  athwart  the  darkness, 

With  their  sweet  and  changeless  eyes* 
But  mute  are  ye,  my  children ! 

No  voice  to  mine  replies. 
Where  are  ye  ?     Are  ye  playing 

By  the  stranger's  blazing  hearth ; 
Forgetting,  in  your  gladness, 

Your  old  home's  former  mirth  ? 
Are  ye  dancing  ?    Are  ye  singing  ? 

Are  ye  full  of  childish  glee  ? 
Or  do  your  light  hearts  sadden 

With  the  memory  of  me  ? 
Round  whom,  oh!  gentle  darlings, 

Do  your  young  arms  fondly  twine, 
Does  she  press  you  to  her  bosom 

Who  hath  taken  you  from  mine  ? 
Oh  !  boys,  the  twilight  hour 

Such  a  heavy  time  hath  grown,— 
It  recalls  with  such  deep  anguish 

All  I  used  to  call  my  own,— 
That  the  harshest  word  that  ever 

Was  spoken  to  me  there, 
Would  be  trivial— would  be  webom*- 

In  this  depth  of  my  despair  ! 
Yet  no  !  Despair  shall  sink  not, 
WhiJe  Life  and  Love  remain.— 


92  TWILIGHT. 

Tho'  the  weary  struggle  haunt  me, 
And  my  prayer  be  made  in  vain: 

Tho'  at  times  rny  spirit  fail  me, 
And  the* bitter  tear-drops  fall, 

Tho'  my  lot  be  hard  and  lonely, 
Yet  I  hope — I  hope  thro'  all ! 

When  the  mournful  Jewish  mother 

Laid  her  infant  down  to  rest, 
In  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow, 

On  the  water's  changeful  breast; 
She  knew  not  what  the  future 

Should  bring  the  sorely-tried: 
That  the  High  Priest  of  her  nation, 

Was  the  babe  she  ought  to  hide. 
No!  in  terror  wildly  flying, 

She  hurried  on  her  path : 
Her  swoln  heart  full  to  bursting 

Of  woman's  helpless  wrath; 
Of  that  wrath  so  blent  with  anguish, 

When  we  seek  to  shield  from  ill 
Those  feeble  little  creatures 

Who  seem  more  helpless  still ! 
Ah  !  no  doubt  in  such  an  hour, 

Her  thoughts  were  harsh  and  wili 
The  fiercer  burned  her  spirit, 

The  more  she  loved  her  child  ,• 
No  doubt,  a  frenzied  anger 

Was  mingled  with  her  fear, 
When  that  prayer  arose  for  justice 

Which  God  hath  sworn  to  hear. 


TWILIGHT.  93 

He  heard  it !     From  His  Heaven, 

In  its  blue  and  boundless  scope, 
He  saw  that  task  of  anguish, 

And  that  fragile  ark  of  hope  ; 
When  she  turn'd  from  that  lost  infant. 

Her  weeping  eyes  of  love, 
And  the  cold  reeds  bent  beneath  it— 

His  angels  watch'd  above  ! 
She  was  spared  the  bitter  sorrow 

Of  her  young  child's  early  death, 
Or  the  doubt  where  he  was  carried 

To  draw  his  distant  breath  ; 
She  was  call'd  his  life  to  nourish 

From  the  well-springs  of  her  heart, 
God's  mercy  re-uniting 

Those  whom  man  had  forced  apart ! 

Nor  was  thy  woe  forgotten, 

Whose  worn  and  weary  feet 
Were  driven  from  thy  homestead, 

Through  the  red  sand's  parching  heat; 
Poor  Hagar  !  scorn'd  and  bauish'd 

That  another's  son  might  be 
Sole  claimant  on  that  father, 

Who  felt  no  more  for  thee. 
Ah  !  when  thy  dark  eye  wander'd, 

Forlorn  Egyptian  slave ! 
Across  that  lurid  desert, 

And  saw  no  fountain  wave, — 
When  thy  southern  heart,  despairing, 

In  the  passion  of  its  grief, 
Foresaw  no  ray  of  comfort, 


94 


XW1LIGHT. 


No  shadow  of  relief; 
But  to  cast  the  young  child  from  thee, 

That  thou  might'st  not  see  him  die, 
How  sank  thy  broken  spirit- 
But  the  Lord  of  Hosts  was  nigh ! 
He  (He,  too  oft  forgotten, 

In  sorrow  as  in  joy) 
Had  will'd  they  should  not  perish— 

The  outcast  and  her  boy  : 
The  cool  breeze  swept  across  them 

From  the  angel's  waving  wing, — 
The  fresh  tide  gush'd  in  brightness 

From  the  fountain's  living  spring,—* 
Ana  they  stood— those  two—forsaken 

By  all  earthly  love  or  aid, 
Upheld  by  God's  firm  promise, 

Serene  and  undismay'd  ! 
And  thou,  Nain's  grieving  widow! 

Whose  task  of  life  seem'd  done, 
When  the  pale  corse  lay  before  thee 

Of  thy  dear  and  only  son  ; 
Though  Death,  that  fearful  shadow, 

Had  veil'd  his  fair  young  eyes, 
There  was  mercy  for  thy  weeping, 

There  was  pity  for  thy  sighs  ! 
The  gentle  voice  of  Jesus, 

(Who  the  touch  of  sorrow  knew) 
The  grave's  cold  claim  arrested 

E'er  it  hid  him  from  thy  view ; 
And  those  loving  orbs  re-open'd 

And  knew  thy  mournful  face,— 


TWILIGHT.  95 

And  the  ctiff  limbs  warm'd  and  bent  thsm 

With  all  life's  moving  grace, — 
And  his  senses  dawn'd  and  waken/d 

From  the  dark  and  frozen  spell, 
Which  death  had  cast  around  him 

Whom  thou  didst  love  so  well; 
Till,  like  one  return'd  from  exile 

To  his  former  home  of  rest, 
Who  speaks  not  while  his  mother 

Falls  sobbing  on  his  breast  ; 
But  with  strange  bewilder'd  glances 

Looks  round  on  objects  near, 
To  recognise  and  welcome 

All  that  memory  held  dear, — 
Thy  young  son  stood  before  thee 

All  living  and  restored, 
And  they  who  saw  the  wonder 

Knelt  down  to  praise  the  Lord  ! 

The  twilight  hour  is  over  ! 

In  busier  homes  than  mine 
I  can  see  the  shadows  crossing 

Athwart  the  taper's  shine  ; 
I  hear  the  roll  of  chariots 

And  the  tread  of  homeward  feet, 
And  the  lamps'  long  rows  of  splendour 

Gleam  through  the  misty  street. 
No  more  I  mark  the  objects 

In  my  cold  and  cheerless  room  ; 
The  fire's  unheeded  embers 

Have  sunk — and  all  is  gloom  ; 
Bat  I  know  where  hang  your  pictures 


96  TWILIGHT. 

Against  the  silent  wall, 
And  my  eyes  turn  sadly  towards  them, 

Tho'  I  hope — I  hope  thro'  all. 
By  the  summons  to  that  mother, 

Whose  fondness  fate  beguiled, 
When  the  tyrant's  gentle  daughter 

Saved  her  river-floating  child  ; — 
By  the  sudden  joy  which  bounded 

In  the  banish'd  Hagar's  heart, 
When  she  saw  the  gushing  fountain 

From  the  sandy  desert  start ; — 
By  the  living  smile  which  greeted 

The  lonely  one  of  Nain, 
When  her  long  last  watch  was  over 

And  her  hope  seem'd  wild  and  vain, 
By  all  the  tender  mercy 

God  hath  shown  to  human  grief, 
When  fate  or  man's  perverseness 

Denied  and  barr'd  relief, — 
By  the  helpless  woe  which  taught  ra« 

To  look  to  him  alone, 
From  the  vain  appeals  for  justice 

And  wild  efforts  of  my  own, 
By  thy  light — thou  unseen  future, 

And  thy  tears — thou  bitter  past, 
I  will  hope — tho'  all  forsake  me, 

la  His  mercy  to  the  last  i 


THE  BLIND   MAN'S  BRIDE, 


WHEN  first,  beloved,  in  vanish'd  hours 

The  blind  man  sought  thy  love  to  gain, 
They  said  thy  cheek  was  bright  as  flowers 

New  freshen' d  by  the  summer  rain : 
They  said  thy  movements,  swift  yet  soft, 

Were  such  as  make  the  winged  dove 
Seem,  as  it  gently  soars  aloft, 

The  image  of  repose  and  love. 

They  told  me,  too,  an  eager  crowd 

Of  wooers  praised  thy  beauty  rare 
But  that  thy  heart  was  all  too  proud 

A  common  love  to  meet  or  share. 
Ah  !  thine  was  neither  pride  nor  scorn, 

But  in  thy  coy  and  virgin  breast 
Dwelt  preference,  not  of  PASSION  born, 

The  love  that  hath  a  holier  rest ! 

Days  came  and  went ; — thy  step  I  heard 
Pause  frequent,  as  it  pass'd  me  by  : — 

Days  came  and  went ; — thy  heart  was  stirr'd 
And  answer' d  to  my  stifled  sigh! 

And  thou  didst  make  a  humble  choice, 

7  97 


98  THE  BLIND   MAN?S  BRIBE. 

Content  to  be  the  blind  man's  bride, 
Who  loved  thee  for  thy  gentle  voice, 
And  own'd  no  joy  on  earth  beside. 

And  well  by  that  sweet  voice  I  knew 

(Without  the  happiness  of  sight) 
Thy  years,  as  yet,  were  glad  and  few, 

Thy  smile,  most  innocently  bright: 
I  knew  how  full  of  love's  own  grace 

The  beauty  of  thy  form  must  be ; 
And  fancy  idolized  the  face 

Whose  loveliness  I  might  not  see  ! 

Oh  !  happy  were  those  days,  beloved ! 

I  almost  ceased  for  light  to  pine 
When  thro'  the  summer  vales  we  roved, 

Thy  fond  hand  gently  link'd  in  mine. 
Thy  soft  "  Good  night"  still  sweetly  cheei'd 

The  unbroken  darkness  of  my  doom  ; 
And  thy  "  Good  morrow,  love,"  endear' d 

Each  sunrise  that  re  turn' d  in  gloom  ! 

At  length,  as  years  roll'd  swiftly  on, 

They  spoke  to  me  of  Time's  decay — 
Of  roses  from  thy  smooth  cheek  gone, 

And  ebon  ringlets  turn'd  to  gray. 
Ah  !  then  I  bless'd  the  sightless  eyes 

Which  could  not  feel  the  deepening  shade. 
Nor  watch  beneath  succeeding  skies 

Thy  withering  beauty  faintly  fade. 

»  saw  no  paleness  on  thy  cheek, 
No  lines  upon  thy  forehead  smooth,— 


THE  BLIND  MAN'S  BRIDE.  99 

But  still  the  BLIND  MAN  heard  thee  speak 
In  accents  made  to  bless  and  soothe. 

Still  he  could  feel  thy  guiding  hand 
As  thro'  the  woodlands  wild  we  ranged,— 

Still  in  the  summer  light  could  stand, 
And  know  thy  HEART  and  VOICE  unchanged. 

And  still,  beloved,  till  life  grows  cold, 

We'll  wander  'neath  a  genial  sky, 
And  only  know  that  we  are  old 

By  counting  happy  years  gone  by: 
For  thou  to  me  art  still  as  fair 

As  when  those  happy  years  began,— 
When  first  thou  cam'st  'o  sooth  and  share 

The  sorrows  of  a  sightless  man  ! 

Old  Time,  who  changes  all  below, 

To  wean  men  gently  for  the  grave, 
Hath  brought  us  no  increase  of  woe, 

And  leaves  us  all  he  ever  gave : 
For  I  am  still  a  helpless  thing, 

Whose  darken' d  world  is  cheer' d  by  thee»— 
And  thou  art  she  whoso  beauty's  spring 

The  blind  man  vainly  yearn'd  10  §69 ! 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON'S 
BETROTHED. 


AH,  cease  to  plead  with  that  sweet   cheerful 
voice, 

Nor  bid  me  struggle  with  a  weight  of  woe, 
Lest  from  the  very  tone  that  says  "  rejoice" 

A  double  bitterness  of  grief  should  grow; 
Those  words  from  THEE  convey  no  gladdening 
thought, 

No  sound  of  comfort  lingers  in  their  tone, 
But  by  their  means  a  haunting  shade  is  brought 

Of  love  and  happiness  forever  gone  ! 

My  son  ! — alas,  hast  thou  forgotten  Jiim, 

That  thou  art  full  of  hopeful  plans  again  ? 
His  heart  is  cold — his  joyous  eyes  are  dim, — 

For  him  THE  FUTURE  is  a  word  in  vain ! 
Tie  never  more  the  welcome  hours  may  share, 

Nor  bid   Love's  sunshine   cheer  our  lonely 

home, — 
How  hast  thou  conquer'd  all  the  long  despair 

Born  of  that  sentence—  He  is  in  the  tomb  ? 
100 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON'S  BETROTHEP.  101 

How  can  thy  hand  with  cheerful  fondness  press 
The  hands  of  friends  who  still  on  earth  may 

stay — 

Remembering  his  most  passionate  caress 
When   the   LONG   PARTING    summon'd    him 

away  ? 
How  can'st   thou  keep  from  bitter  weeping, 

while 

Strange  voices  tell  thee  thou  art  brightly  fair — 
Remembering  how  he  loved  thy  playful  smile, 
Kiss'd  thy  smooth  cheek,  and  praised  thy 
burnish' d  hair? 

How  can'st  thou  laugh  ?    How   can'st    thou 

warble  songs  ? 
How  can'st  thou  lightly  tread  the  meadow- 

fields, 

Praising  the  freshness  which  to  spring  belongs, 
And  the  sweet  incense  which  the  hedge-flower 

yields  ? 

Does  not  the  many-blossom'd  spring  recall 
Our  pleasant  walks  through  cowslip-spangled 

meads, — 

The  violet-scented  lanes — the  warm  south-wall, 
Where   early  flow'rets  rear'cl  their  welcome 
heads  ? 

Does  not  remembrance  darken  on  thy  brow 
When  the  wild  rose  a  richer  fragrance  flings—- 

When  the  caressing  breezes  lift  the  bough, 
And  the   sweet    thrush    more   passionalely 
sings ;— 


102  THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON'S  BETROTHED. 

Dost  thou  not,  then,  lament  for  him  whose  form 
Was  ever  near  thee,  full  of  earnest  grace? 

Does  not  the  sudden  darkness  of  the  storm 
Seem  luridly  to  fall  on  Nature's  face  ? 

It  does  to  ME  !  The  murmuring  summer  breeze, 

Which  thou  dost  turn  thy  glowing  cheek  to 

meet, 
For  me  sweeps  desolately  through  the  trees, 

And  moans  a  dying  requiem  at  my  feet ! 
The  glistening  river  which  in  beauty  glides, 

Sparkling  and  blue  with  morn's  triumphant 

light, 
All  lonely  flows,  or  in  its  bosom  hides 

A  broken  image  lost  to  human  sight ! 

But  THOU  ! — Ah  !  turn  thee  not  in  grief  away; 

I  do  not  wish  thy  soul  as  sadly  wrung — 
I  know  the  freedom  of  thy  spirit's  play, 

I  know  thy  bounding  heart  is  fresh  and  young : 
I  know  corroding  Time  will  slowly  break 

The  links  which  bound  most  fondly  and  most 

fast, 
And  Hope  will  be  Youth's  comforter,  and  make 

The  long  bright  Future  overweigh  the  Past. 

Only,  when  full  of  tears  I  raise  mine  eyes 
And  meet  thine  ever  full  of  smiling  light, 

I  feel  as  though  thy  vanished  sympathies 

Were  buried  in  HIS  grave,  where  all  is  night ; 

And  when  beside  our  lonely  hearth  I  sit, 
And  thy  light  laugh  comes  echoing  to  my  ear. 


THE  DYING  IIOuR.  103 

I  wonder  how  the  waste  of  mirth  and  wif 
Hath  still  the  power  thy  widow' d  heart  to 
cheer ! 

Bear  with  me  yet !  Mine  is  a  harsh  complaint ! 

And  thy  youth  a  innocent  light-heartedness 
Should  rather  soothe  me  when  my  spirit's  faint 

Than  seem  to  mock  my  age's  lone  distress. 
But  oh  !  the  tide  of  grief  is  swelling  high, 

And  ,f  so  soon  forgetfulness  must  be — 
If,  for  the  DEAD,  thou  hast  no  further  sigh, 

Weep  for  his  Mother  !— Weep,  young  Bride, 
for  ME  ! 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


i  Te  teneam  moriens,  deficiente  manu." 


'On  !  watch  me  ;  watch  me  still 

Thro'  the  long  night's  dreary  hours, 

Uphold  by  thy  firm  will 

Worn  Nature's  sinking  powers  ! 

While  yet  thy  face  is  there 
(The  loose  locks  round  it  flying,) 

So  young,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 
I  feel  not  I  am  dying  ' 


104  THE  DYING  HOUR. 

Stoop  down,  and  kiss  ray  brow ! 

The  shadows  round  me  closing 
Warn  me  that  dark  and  low 

I  soon  shall  be  reposing. 

But  whiie  those  pitying  eyes 
Are  bending  thus  above  me, 

In  vain  the  death -dews  rise, — 
Thou  dost  regret  and  love  me  ! 

Then  watch  me  thro'  the  night, 
Thro'  my  broken,  fitful  slumbers  J 

By  the  pale  lamp's  sickly  light 
My  dying  moments  number  1 

Thy  fond  and  patient  smile 

Shall  soothe  my  painful  waking  ; 

Thy  voice  shall  cheer  me  while 
The  slow  gray  dawn  is  breaking  ! 

The  battle-slain,  whose  thirst 
No  kindly  hand  assuages, 

Whose  low  faint  farewell  burst 
Unheard,  while  combat  rages,— 

The  exiled,  near  whose  bed 

Some  vision' d  form  seems  weeping, 

Whose  steps  shall  never  tread 
The  land  where  he  lies  sleeping,— 

The  drown'd,  whose  parting  breath 
Is  caught  by  wild  winds  only,— 

Theirs  is  the  bitter  death, 
Beloved,  for  they  Jie  lonely  ! 


THE  DYING  HOUR. 


105 


But  thus,  tho'  rack'd,  to  lie, 
Thoii  near,  tho'  full  of  sadness, 

Leaves  still,  e'en  while  I  die, 
A  lingering  gleam  of  gladness . 

I  feel  not  half  my  pain 

When  to  mine  thy  fond  lip  presses,—* 
I  warm  to  life  again 

Beneath  thy  soft  caresses  ! 

Once  more,  oh  !  yet  once  more 
Fling,  fling  thy  white  arms  round  me, 

As  oft  in  days  of  yore 
Their  gentle  clasp  hath  bound  me  ; 

And  hold  me  to  that  breast 

Which  heaves  so  full  with  sorrow — 
Who  knows  where  T  may  rest 

In  the  dark  and  blank  to-morrow  ? 

Ah !  weep  not — it  shall  be 

An  after-thought  to  cheer  thee, 

That  while  mine  eyes  could  see, 
And  while  mine  ears  could  hear  thee— 

Thy  voice  and  smile  were  still 
The  spells  on  which  I  doated, 

And  thou,  through  good  and  ill 
To  me  and  mine  devoted  ! 

And  calmly  by  my  tomb, 

When  the  low  bright  day  declineth, 
And  athwart  the  cypress  gloom 

The  mellow  sunset  shineth, — 


TY 


106  THE  TYING  HOUR. 

Thou'lt  sit  and  think  of  Him, 
Who,  of  Heaven's  immortal  splendor, 

Had  a  dream  on  earth,  though  dim, 
In  thy  love  so  pure  and  tender, — 

Who  scarcely  feels  thy  touch, — 
Whom  thy  voice  can  rouse  no  longer,*-" 

But  whose  love  on  earth  was  such, 
That  only  death  was  stronger. 

Yes,  sit,  but  not  in  tears  ! 

Thine  eyes  in  faith  uplifting, 
From  thy  lot  of  changeful  years, 

To  the  Heaven  where  nought  is  shifting, 

P'jm  this  world,  where  all  who  love 

Are  doomed  alike  to  sever, 
To  the  glorious  realms  above, 

Where  they  dwell  in  peace  for  ever ! 

And  then  such  hope  shall  beam 
From  the  grave  where  1  lie  sleeping, 

This  bitter  hour  shall  seem 
Too  vague  and  far  for  weeping — 

And  grief— ah  !  hold  me  now  ! 

My  fluttering  pulse  is  failing, — 
The  death-dews  chill  my  brow, — 

The  morning  light  is  paling  ! 

I  seek  thy  gaze  in  vain,— 

Earth  reels  and  fades  before  me , 

I  die — but  feel  no  pain, — 
Thf  sweet  face  shining  o'er  me. 


I  CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 


I  CANNOT  love  thee,  tho'  my  soul 
Be  one  which  all  good  thoughts  control  J 
Altho'  thy  eyes  be  starry  bright, 
And  the  gleams  of  golden  light 
Fall  upon  thy  silken  hair, 
And  thy  forehead,  broad  and  fair; 
Something  of  a  cold  disgust, 
(Wonderful,  and  most  unjust,) 
Something  of  a  sullen  fear 
Weighs  my  heart  when  thou  art  near ; 
And  my  soul,  which  cannot  twine 
Thought  or  sympathy  with  thine, 
With  a  coward  instinct  tries 
To  hide  from  thy  enamor'd  eyes. 
Wishing  for  a  sudden  blindness 
To  escape  those  looks  of  kindness; 
Sad  she  folds  her  shivering  wings 
From  the  love  thy  spirit  brings, 
.Like  a  chained  thing,  caress'd 
By  the  hand  it  knows  the  best, 
By  the  hand  which,  day  by  day, 
Visits  its  imprison' d  stay, 
Bringing  gifts  of  fruit  and  blossom 

107 


108  t  CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Frcm  the  green  earth's  plenteous  bosom  > 
All  but  that  for  which  it  pines 
In  those  narrow  close  confines, 
With  a  sad  and  ceaseless  sigh — 
Wild  and  winged  Liberty  I 

Can  it  be,  no  instinct  dwells 
In  th'  immortal  soul,  which  tells 
That  thy  love,  oh  !  human  brother. 
Is  unwelcome  to  another  ? 
Can  the  changeful  wavering  eye, 
Raised  to  thine  in  forced  reply, — 
Can  the  cold  constrained  smile, 
Shrinking  from  thee  all  the  while, 
Satisfy  thy  heart,  or  prove 
Such  a  likeness  of  true  love  ? 

Seems  to  me,  that  I  should  guewi 
By  what  a  world  of  bitterness, 
By  what  a  gulf  of  hopeless  care, 
Our  two  hearts  divided  were  : 
Seems  to  me  that  I  should  know 
All  the  dread  that  lurk'd  below, 
By  the  want  of  answer  found 
In  the  voice's  trembling  sound 
By  the  unresponsive  gaze  ; 
By  the  smile  which  vainly  plays, 
In  whose  cold  imperfect  birth 
Glows  no  fondness,  lives  no  mirth  s 
By  the  sigh,  whose  different  tone 
Hath  no  echo  of  thine  own  • 


I  CANNOT  LOVE  THEE.  109 

By  the  hand's  cold  clasp,  which  still 
Held  as  not  of  its  free  will, 
Shrinks,  as  it  for  freedom  yearn'dj— 
That  my  love  was  unreturn'd. 

When  thy  tongue  (ah !  woe  is  me  I) 

Whispers  love-vows  tenderly, 
Mine  is  shaping,  all  unheard, 
Fragments  of  some  withering  word, 
Which,  by  its  complete  farewell, 
Shall  divide  us  like  a  spell ! 
And  my  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 
Wishing  that  confession  past; 
And  the  tide  of  anguish  rises, 
Till  its  strength  my  soul  surprises, 
And  the  reckless  words,  unspoken, 
Nearly  have  the  silence  broken, 
With  a  gush  like  some  wild  river,— 
"  Oh  !  depart,  depart  for  ever  !" 

But  my  faltering  courage  fails, 
And  my  drooping  spirit  quails  ; 
So  sweet-earnest  looks  thy  smile 
Full  of  tenderness  the  while, 
And  with  such  strange  pow'r  are  gifted 
The  eyes  to  which  my  own  are  lifted ; 
So  my  faint  heart  dies  away, 
And  my  lip  can  nothing  say, 
And  I  long  to  be  alone, — 
For  I  weep  when  thou  art  gone  ! 

Yes,  I  weep,  but  then  my  sc*l, 
Free  to  ponder  o'er  the  whole, 


110  I  CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Free  from  fears  which  check' d  its  thought, 
And  the  pain  thy  presence  brought, 
Whispers  me  the  useless  lie, — 
"  For  thy  love  he  will  not  die, 
Such  pity  is  but  vanity," 
And  I  bend  my  weary  head 
O'er  the  tablets  open  spread, 
Whose  fair  pages  me  invite 
All  I  dared  not  say  to  write  ; 
And  my  fingers  take  the  pen, 
And  my  heart  feels  braced  again 
With  a  resolute  intent  ; — 
But,  ere  yet  that  page  be  sent, 
Once  I  view  the  written  words 
Which  must  break  thy  true  heart's  chorda 
And  a  vision,  piercing  bright, 
Rises  on  my  coward  sight, 
Of  thy  fond  hand,  gladly  taking 
What  must  set  thy  bosom  aching ; 
While  too  soon  the  brittle  seal 
Bids  the  page  the  worst  reveal, 
Blending  in  thy  eager  gaze- 
Scorn,  and  anguish,  and  amaze. 

Powerless,  then,  my  hand  reposes 
On  the  tablet  which  it  closes, 
With  a  cold  and  shivering  sense 
Born  of  Truth's  omnipotence  : 
And  my  weeping  blots  the  leaves, 
And  my  sinking  spirit  grieves, 
Humbled  in  that  bitter  hour 
By  very  consciousness  of  power  ! 


I  CANNOT  LOVE  THEE.  Ill 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  be 
Such  a  source  of  woe  to  thee  ? 
What  am  I,  that  I  should  dara 
Thus  to  play  with  thy  despair, 
And  persuade  myself  that  thou 
Wilt  not  bend  beneath  the  blow? 

Rather  should  my  conscience  morft 
Me  to  think  of  this  vain  love, 
Which  my  life  of  peace  beguiles, 
As  a  tax  on  foolish  smiles, 
Which — like  light  not  meant  for  one 
Who,  wandering  in  the  dark  alone, 
Hath  yet  been  tempted  by  its  ray 
To  turn  aside  and  lose  his  way — 
Binds  me,  by  their  careless  sin, 
To  take  the  misled  wanderer  in; 

And  I  praise  thee,  as  I  go, 
Wandering,  weary,  full  of  woe, 
To  my  own  unwilling  heart ; 
Cheating  it  to  take  thy  part 
By  rehearsing  each  rare  merit 
Which  thy  nature  doth  inherit. 
To  myself  their  list  I  give, 
Most  prosaic,  positive  : — 
How  thy  heart  is  good  and  true. 
And  thy  face  most  fair  to  view ; 
How  the  powers  of  thy  mind 
Flatterers  in  the  wisest  find, 
And  the  talents  God  hath  given 
Seem  as  held  in  trust  for  Heaven} 


112  I   CANNOT  LOVE  THEE. 

Laboring  on  for  noble  ends, — 
Steady  to  thy  boyhood's  friends,— 
Slow  to  give,  or  take,  offence,-— 
Full  of  earnest  eloquence, — 
Hopeful,  eager,  gay  of  cheer, — 
Frank  in  all  thy  dealings  here,— 
Ready  to  redress  the  wrong 
Of  the  weak  against  the  strong, — 
Keeping  up  an  honest  pride 
With  those  the  world  hath  deified, 
But  gently  bending  heart  and  brow 
To  the  helpless  and  the  low  ; — 
How,  in  brief,  there  dwells  in  thee 
All  that's  generous  and  free, 
All  that  may  most  aptly  move 
My  Spirit  to  an  answering  love. 

But  in  vain  the  tale  is  told ; 

Still  my  heart  lies  dead  and  cold, 

Still  it  wanders  and  rebels 

From  the  thought  that  thus  compels, 

And  refuses  to  rejoice 

Save  in  unconstrained  choice. 

Therefore,  when  thine  eyes  shall  read 
This,  my  book,  oh  take  thou  heed ! 
In  the  dim  lines  written  here, 
All  shall  be  explained  and  clear; 
All  my  lips  could  never  speak 
When  my  heart  grew  coward-weak,    • 
All  my  hand  could  never  write, 


I   CANNOT   LOVE  THEE.  113 

Tho'  I  planned  it  day  and  night,*— 
All  shall  be  at  length  confest, 
And  thou'lt  forgive,— and  let  me  rest1. 
None  but  thou  and  I  shall  know 
Whose  the  doom,  and  whose  the  woe  ; 
None  but  thou  and  I  shall  share 
In  the  secret  printed  there  ; 
Jt  shall  be  a  secret  still, 
Tho'  all  look  on  it  at  will ; 
And  the  eye  shall  read  in  vain 
What  the  heart  cannot  explain. 
Each  one,  baffled  in  his  turn, 
Shall  no  more  its  aim  discern, 
Than  a  wanderer  who  might  look 
On  some  wizard's  magic  book, 
Of  the  darkly- worded  spell 
Where  deep-hidden  meanings  dwell. 
Memory,  fancy,  they  shall  task 
Phis  sad  riddle  to  unmask, — 
Or,  with  bold  conjectural  fame, 
Vit  the  pages  with  a  name  ;— 
But  nothing  shall  they  understand, 
And  vainly  shall  the  stranger's  hand 
Essay  to  fling  the  leaves  apart, 
<¥hich  bears  Mr  message  to  THY  heart! 
8 


THE  POET'S  CHOICE. 


TWAS  in  youth,  that  hour  of  dreaming  \ 
Round  me,  visions  fair  were  beaming, 
Golden  fancies,  brightly  gleaming, 

Such  as  start  to  birth 
When  the  wandering  restless  mind, 
Drunk  with  beauty,  thinks  to  find 
Creatures  of  a  fairy  kind 

Realized  on  Earth ! 

Then,  for  me,  in  every  dell 
Hamadryads  seem'd  to  dwell 
(They  who  die,  as  Poet's  tell, 

Each  with  her  own  tree ; ) 
And  sweet  mermaids,  low  reclining, 
Dim  light  through  their  grottos  shining,  _ 
Green  weeds  round  their  soft  limbs  twiningi 

Peopled  the  deep  Sea. 

Then,  when  moon  and  stars  were  fair, 
Nymph-like  visions  fill'd  the  air, 
With  blue  wings  and  golden  hair 

Bending  from  the  skies; 

And  each  cave  by  echo  haunted 

114 


THE  POET'S  CHOICE.  115 

In  its  depth  of  shadow  granted, 
Brightly,  the  Egeria  wanted, 

To  my  eager  eyes. 

But  those  glories  pass'd  away ; 
Earth  seem'd  left  to  dull  decay, 
And  my  heart  in  sadness  lay, 

Desolate,  uncheer'd; 
Like  one  wrapt  in  painful  sleeping, 
Pining,  thirsting,  waking,  weeping, 
Watch  thro'  Life's  dark  midnight  keeping, 

Till  THY  form  appear'dl 

THEN  my  soul,  whose  erring  measure 
Knew  not  where  to  find  true  pleasure, 
Woke  and  seized  the  golden  treasure 

Of  thy  human  love ; 
And,  looking  on  thy  radiant  brow, 
My  lips  in  gladness  breathed  the  vow 
Which  angels,  not  more  fair  than  thou, 

Have  register' d  above. 

And  now  I  take  my  quiet  rest, 
With  my  head  upon  thy  breast, 
I  will  make  no  further  quest 

Jn  Fancy's  realms  of  light ; 
Fay,  nor  nymph,  nor  winged  spirit, 
Shall  my  store  of  love  inherit ; 
More  thy  mortal  charm  doth  merit 

Than  dream,  however  bright. 

And  my  soul,  like  some  sweet  bird 
Whose  song  at  summer  eve  is  heard, 


116     THE  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  LOVE-SONGf. 

When  the  breeze,  so  lightly  stirr'd, 

Leaves  the  branch  unbent,— 

Sits  and  all  triumphant  sings, 

Folding  up  her  brooding  wings, 

And  gazing  out  on  earthly  things 

With  a  calm  content. 


THE  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  LOVE- 
SONG. 

"  Ich  liebe  dich !»» 


BY  the  rush  of  the  Rhine's  broad  stre»m, 

Down  whose  rapid  tide 
We  sailed  as  in  some  sweet  dream 

Sitting  side  by  side  ; 
By  the  depth  of  its  clear  blue  wave 

And  the  vine-clad  hills, 
Which  gazed  on  its  heart  and  gave 

Their  tribute  rills ; 

By  the  mountains,  in  purple  shade, 

And  those  valleys  green 
Where  our  bower  of  rest  was  made, 

By  the  world  unseen  ; 
By  the  notes  of  the  wild  free  bird, 

Singing  over-head, 


THE  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  LOVE  SONG.      117 

When  naught  else  in  the  sunshine  stirr'd 
Round  our  flowery  bed; 

By  these,  and  by  Love's  power  divine, 
I  have  no  thought  but  what  is  thine  ! 

By  the  glance  of  thy  radiant  eyes, 

Where  a  glory  shone 
That  was  half  of  the  summer  skies 

And  half  their  own  ; 
By  the  light  and  yet  fervent  hold 

Of  thy  gentle  hand, — 
(As  the  woodbines  the  flowers  unfold 

With  tneir  tender  band ;) 

By  thy  voice  when  it  breathes  in  song, 

And  the  echo  given 
By  lips  that  to  Earth  belong, 

Float  up  to  Heaven  ; 
By  the  gleams  on  thy  silken  hair 

At  the  sunset  hour, 
And  the  breadth  of  thy  forehead  fair 

With  its  thoughtful  power  ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love's  soul  divine, 
I  have  no  hope  but  what  is  thine ! 

By  the  beauty  and  stillness  round 

When  the  lake's  lone  shore 
Scarce  echoed  the  pleasant  sound 

Of  the  distant  oar  ; 
By  the  moonlight  which  softly  fell 


118      THE  GERMAN  STUDENT'S  LOVB-SCjrfl, 

On  all  objects  near, 
And  thy  whisper  seemed  like  a  spell 
In  thy  Lover's  ear ; 

By  the  dreams  of  the  restless  past, 

And  the  hope  that  came 
Like  sunshine  in  shadow  cast 

With  thy  gentle  name  ; 
By  the  beat  of  thy  good  true  heart 

Where  pure  thoughts  have  birth  ; 
By  thy  tears  when  Fate  bade  us  part, 

And  thy  smiles  of  mirth  ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love's  power dilint, 
I  have  no  hope  but  what  is  thine  ! 

By  the  gloom  of  those  holy  fanes 

Where  the  light  stream'd  through 
Dim  orange  and  purple  panes 

On  the  aisles  below  ; 
By  the  ruin'd  and  roofless  wall 

Of  that  castle  high, 
With  its  turrets  so  gray  and  tail 

In  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

By  beauty,  because  its  light 

Should  thy  portion  be, 
And  whatever  is  fair  and  bright 

Seems  a  part  of  thee; 
And  by  darkness  and  blank  dectf 

Because  they  tell 


THE  HUNTING-HORN  OF   CHARLEMAGNE.  119 

What  the  world  would  be,  THOU  away, 
Whom  I  love  so  well ; 

By  these,  and  by  Love's  power  divine, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  my  life,  are  thine ' 


THE  HUNTING  HORN  OF  CHARLE.. 
MAGNE. 


Among  other  leKcs  preserved  in  the  Cathedral  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle  is  the  ivory  hunting-horn  of  Charle. 
magne.  It  is  massive  and  heavy,  and  the  attempt  of 
the  guide  to  sound  it  (for  the  amusement  of  tourists 
and  strangers)  is  singularly  unsuccessful,  the  note 
produced  being  the  most  faint  and  lugubrious  which 
it  is  possible  to  conceive. 


SOUND  not  the  horn  ! — the  guarded  relic  keep  r 
A  faithful  sharer  of  its  master's  sleep  : 
His  life  it  gladden'd — to  his  life  belong'd, — 
Pause— ere  thy  lip  the  royal  dead  hath  wrong'd 
Its  weary  weight  but  mocks  thy  feeble  hand  ; 
Its  desolate  note,  the  shrine  wherein  we  stand. 
Not  such  the  sound  it  gave  in  days  of  yore, 
When  that  rich  belt  a  monarch's  bosom  wore,-« 
Not  such  the  sound  !     Far  over  hill  and  dell 
It  waked  the  echoes  with  triumphant  swell  ; 
Heard  midst  the  rushing  of  the  torrent's  fall 
From  castled  crag  to  roofless  ruin'd  hall, 


120  THE  HUNTING-HORN  OF  CHARLEMAGNE. 

Down  the  ravine's  precipitous  descent, 
Thro'  the  wild  forest's  rustling  boughs  it  went, 
Upon  the  lake's  blue  bosom  linger'd  fond, 
And  faintly  answer'd  from  the  hills  beyond  : 

Pause  ! — the  free  winds  that  joyous  blast  have 

borne  : — 
Dead  is  the  hunter ! — silent  be  the  horn ! 

Sound  not  the  horn  !     Bethink  thee  of  the  day 
When  to  the  chase  an  Emperor  led  the  way ; 
In  all  the  pride  of  manhood's  noblest  prime, 
Untamed  by  sorrow,  and  untired  by  time, 
Life's  pulses  throbbing  in  his  eager  breast, 
Glad,  active,  vigorous, — who  is  now  at  rest : — 
How  he  gazed  around  him  with  his  eagle  eye, 
Leapt  the  dark  rocks  that  frown  against  the  sky, 
Grasp'd  the  long  spear,  and  curb'd  the  panting 

steed, 
(Whose  fine  nerves  quiver  with  his  headlong 

speeds 

At  the  wild  cry  of  danger  smiled  in  scorn, 
And  firmly  sounded  that  re-echoing  horn  ! 

Ah  !  let  no  touch  the  ivory  tube  profane 
Which  drank  the  breath  of  living  Charlemagne 
Let  not  like  blast  by  meaner  lips  be  blown, 
But  by  the  hunter's  side  the  horn  lay  down! 

Or,  following  to  his  palace,  dream  we  now 
Not  of  the  hunter's  strength  or  forest  bough, 


THE  HUNTING-HORN  OF  CHARLEMAGNE.  121 

Bu,  woman's  loye !    HER  offering  this,  per 

chance, — 

This,  granted  to  each  stranger's  casual  glance, 
This,  gazed  upon  with  coldly  curious  eyes. 
Was  giv'n  with  blushes,  and  received  with  sighs 
We  see  her  not ; — no  mournful  angel  stands 
To  guard  her  love -gift  from  our  careless  hands 
But  fancy  brings  a  vision  to  our  view — 
A  woman's  form,  the  trusted  and  the  true : 
The  strong  to  suffer,  tho'  so  weak  to  dare, 
Patient  to  watch  thro'  many  a  day  of  care, 
Devoted,  anxious,  generous,  void  of  guile, 
And  with  her  whole  heart's  welcome  hi  her 

smile ; 

Even  such  I  see  !     Her  maidens,  too,  are  there, 
And  wake,  with  chorus  sweet,  some  native  air; 
But  tho'  her  proud  heart  holds  her  country  dear, 
And  tho'  she  loves  those  happy  songs  to  hear, 
She  bids  the  tale  be  hush'd,  the  harp  be  still, 
For  one  faint  blast  that  dies  along  the  hill. 
Up,  up,  she  springs ;  her  young  head  backward 

thrown ; 

"  He  comes  !  my  hunter  comes  ! — Mine  own- 
mine  own  !" 

She  loves,  and  she  is  loved— her  gift  is  worn — 
'Tis  fancy,  all !— And  yet— lay  down  the  horn  ! 

LOVE-- life— what  are  ye  ?— since  to  love  and 

live 

No  surer  record  to  our  times  can  give  ! 
Low  lies  the  hero  now,  whose  spoken  name 


122  THE  HUNTINa-IIORN  OF  CHARLEMAGNE. 

Could  fire  with  glory,  or  with  love  inflame  ; 
Low  lies  the  arm  of  might,  the  form  of  pride, 
And  dim  tradition  dreameth  by  his  side. 
Desolate  stands  those  painted  palace-halls, 
And  gradual  ruin  mines  the  massy  walls, 
Where  frank  hearts  greeted  many  a  welcome 

guest, 

And  loudly  rang  the  beaker  and  the  jest ; — 
While  here,  within  this  chapel's  narrow  bound, 
Whose  frozen  silence  startles  to  the  sound 
Of  stranger  voices  ringing  thro'  the  air, 
Or  faintly  echoes  many  a  humble  prayer; 
Here,  where  the  window,  narrow  arch'd,  and 

high, 

With  jealous  bars  shuts  out  the  free  blue  sky,— 
Where  glimmers  down,  with  various-painted 

ray, 

A  prison'd  portion  of  God's  glorious  day, — 
Where  never  comes  the  breezy  breath  of  morn* 
Here,  mighty  hunter,  feebly  wakes  thy  ham. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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BEC'DLO   MAR    473"iH*7  8 


2  6 1982 


MAR  i  i 


JUN  1  7  198?  RECEIVED 

.1UN191987  REB2  1 1996 

CllpCULATION  DEPT. 

JAN  2 11997 

DECU1992    ^ 

AUTO  DISC  CIRC  DEplo'92 

JUN  03 1994 

ALTO  DISC  CIRC 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


